Wait for it
by A Starr Is Reborn
Summary: She's crying and it doesn't seem she'll stop anytime soon. You run your fingers through her hair. "I think I'm in love with you."
1. Bold

**Hi! I'll be bringing a story or two back. But otherwise HI welcome to this thing here.**

* * *

You need a drink.

You're probably an alcoholic, of course you want one. But, it's MORE than that. You need one.

This guy standing behind you, breathing his hot rancid halitosis on your neck really makes that a high priority. You were drunk, to be fair. But his grubby hands on your tight-little-dress covered behind was starting to sober you up quite well. Better than a pot of coffee and one pleasantly cold shower.

As soon as his hips clumsily shifted to press closer to your bum, that was the last straw.

"If you'll excuse me," tone like ice, eyes sharp glinting with a boiling fury. You feel you must look dangerous, and you do. Through the hazy cloud of intoxication, a spark in his eyes screams recognition.

_ What is it they say - game recognize game?_

You strut away. From your gaggle of girlfriends. From the brother drunkard stumbling towards another unwilling woman. And maybe you are drunk (and you so totally are, by the way, get your last drink and close the tab out for the night, love), but it feels like your energy crackles around you. Electricity in the air, an energy that parts the dancing crowd. This bar is tiny though, and you're a frequent.

They know better than to stand in your way.

Flashing lights almost blind you but you make it to the bar and thumping bass vibrates through the chair you decide to perch on. It's leather is cracked and worn, duct tape with mustaches covering any spots where stuffing is starting to expose itself.

"Hey Witt!" Not everyone knows his name, in fact most patrons of the bar just call the man 'waiter' after a fiasco with two drunk bozos... But you make it a point to leave nicknames only for those that enjoy them. Witt despises his. It's etched a permanent scowl into his features. The neon lights behind the bar cast green light onto his skin as he looms before you.

"Yeah?" It's blunt. Not unkind. But blunt.

"Can I get Some Pussy please?" You smile a sugary smile, his expression doesn't change.

"You know I don't make that anymore," You've known Witt a few more years than you'll let on to anyone else. You worked at a strip club for a little while, a few years - a good eight of them or so - back. It closed down. Small town like this killed it fast. But you worked their as a server. Underage and totally paid under the table. Witt took it upon himself to watch your back. You WEREN'T a stripper, you were off limits.

And you would totally drink with the crew whenever you closed. You miss the girls. And the drinks. But Witt had stayed.

"Hmmm," you sway on the stool. Not because you're drunk. You're doing it and whining, giving him a look that begs for something off the menu. _Remember_, you're trying to say, _remember when we why'd mix all TYPES of drinks together._

And also, _ It's your fault I'm an alcoholic._

He sighs, shakes his head and starts to prepare an almost lethal concoction of a drink. If your eyes doth not deceive, it's what you guys had called _ Fucking Linda. _ You might just miss that crazy bitch most of all.

"Ring me up sir!" You demand, haughty. But it's playful and he rolls his eyes. You think you catch the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile as he glances up at you, setting your special drink in front of you. But before he can respond, _ yes of course miss anything else miss such a shame to see you go miss, _ there's a shout from the other end of the bar,

"WAAAAAIIIITEEEER!" And the smile drops back into a frown. But you smile, and because you're a bitch you also laugh.

"Duty calls," You take your card from him and push a ten into his hand before hopping off your stool and you blow a kiss over your shoulder, glide back across the dance floor amazingly covered in bodies - a good chunk of them frat douches and the frat mattresses they'd be waking up to in the morning - and make it in one piece back to your friends. They hadn't missed you. Light weights had already gotten trashed off the four jello shots they'd each choked down.

"Elsa!" Well, one person missed you. She drapes herself over your shoulder. Even though she's huge and you're comparatively tiny. If you weren't so used to this you might have spilled your drink. You take a long, slow sip.

"Yo."

She giggles into your ear. And if you didn't love her like the little-big sister you never had, maybe you would have felt a certain way about her arms looping around your waist and settling her palms on your cheeks.

"I'm... sofaking drunk." She giggles again and you reach up, running your fingers through her hair. You push her bangs back when she draws back to give you some breathing room and she smiles when you grin,

"ELSA!" You exclaim because you know all your friends hate you for your hair. It's perfect and you know it. Not everyone can be as perfect as you and you understand that. Even if it is a fucking joke.

Kristy laughs harder when her bangs fall back over her forehead and you pout. While she catches her breath you fill your mouth with more drink. It burns. You enjoy it. And then she stops and she's glaring over your shoulder.

"That creep is perving on another girl," at first you have no idea what she's talking about. But when you cast your eyes in the direction of her glare you find it. MrGrabass is trying to feel up a poor unsuspecting college student. You try to summon up the energy to care.

But you do find a smile when the girl's embarrassment of bitches emerges from the woodwork and go to surround her. An impregnable fortress. One girl throws a drink in his face. You decide you'll call her Stacy.

_ You go Stacy._

"I was hoping for a fight," you admit, hiding your next smile in your drink as you take another sip. Kristy slaps your shoulder. Rough. You still don't spill your drink.

_ Stacy brought her boyfriend, nice. Perhaps I spoke too soon._

"You're _ so_ mean," but she's giggling again. Of course you're mean. Where's the fun in being nice? Glass shatters, you don't hide your smile this time. In fact you laugh outright. Stacy's boyfriend punched Grabass, but with a stein. How delightful. A chorus of gasps ring out behind you. Your own embarrassment of bitches has been alerted to the presence of trouble. You tip the glass back and take a few large gulps.

They'll want to leave now. And next time you want to come here they'll complain. That it smells like cigarettes and there's always a fight that breaks out. And they'll be correct. But you'll all end up here anyway. Still, you have to be ready. They all paid with cash. So they are ready but whispering amongst themselves happens first, then they try to drop hints about leaving. Then they ask to leave.

Like you're they're fucking mother or something.

_ It's good to be Queen._

You manage to slam the drink back. Set it on a nearby table. Turn to them and they are just starting to whisper.

"Let's bounce, ladies," you tell them and a wave of relief washes over them. They all agree easily. But then a question comes up. As it always does.

"Who's going to drive?"

You roll your eyes, lifting one hand, "I will, duh." And no-one says anything but they all look at each other nervously. "What?"

"Aren't you a little drunk?" Kristy is the one to ask it, brushing her golden bangs out of her eyes so she can frown at you in concern and confusion. Yes. Yes you are. But that doesn't matter. You've driven drunker than this before.

Which is both bad and sad, so you can't really say that.

"Not really," you lie, but shrug and offer, "we can call a cab if that'd make you feel better?" Knowing there's not enough room in just ONE cab for all of you. You'll drive home dammit! But it's absolutely understandable if they aren't comfortable with that. And it's probably a good thing too.

Much less danger to them.

"We won't have room for the all of us..." And maybe Kristy is a bit more aware than you gave her credit for.

"I can take my own," at the look that garners you roll your eyes. "I'm a big girl Kris. Wipe my own ass and everything!" She can't help her smile. You volunteer to call the company and they allow it. Even rushing to get one last round of jello shots knowing they'll be out of here soon and who really gives a fuck right?

Up in the bar turning up on a Thursday. Cuz hell yeah. You only call for one car. And the last shot, they swear, is going to keep them warm for the wait for the cab. But it arrives after only two minutes standing at the curb just outside the front of the bar. And Kris waits a moment to ask where yours is. And one pulls up behind theirs and you nod at it.

Lies are like breathing.

She smiles and kisses your cheek all sloppy and you pat her head and chuckle as she settles into the car. And then the door closes and you keep smiling and waving till they're out of sight. Then you sigh and open your clutch, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes. The bar has a small patio area all the smokers retreat to at one point or another, whenever they aren't trying to sneakily smoke just inside the door that leads from the bar out onto the patio.

You open the iron gate they have and step into this area. Find a place at an empty picnic table and seat yourself. You don't usually smoke. Generally you're a social smoker but Fucking Linda was crazy in a glass and you need to chill out for a bit before you drive. Only problem is that your lighter is dead.

"Son of a-" you shake it, hard, and it sparks and catches for a moment. Then a wind snuffs the tiny flame from existence. "Great." You mumble around the cigarette. And you could scream in frustration. It's been a long day. You could really use the nicotine right now.

"Need a light?" And you want to deny that without looking up, you want to turn your back and ignore this person. But your eyes climb from converse-covered feet up long legs encased in slightly-ripped denim, over a plain black t-shirt with what looked like a clock over the heart. And you stop at the grin. Because it's warm and genuine and inviting. And you're a stranger.

"Thanks," you smile despite the sneer that wants to show itself. Because after all, anyone can play nice for a pretty face. And this face is certainly pretty. Almost as pretty as you. And you smile wider. "You new here?"

That's all the invitation smiley needs to seat herself across from you. She's wearing a leather jacket she swings off her shoulders and offers to you. You cock one brow, not quite eyeing it with disdain. But basically that.

"You're not cold?" She offers in way of an actual answer to your unspoken question. And you aren't. But that damn smile is impossible to ignore. So you giggle - you REALLY must be drunk, hmm? - and reach for it, wrapping it around your shoulders, and that's when she leans forward and lights your cigarette for you.

What a gentlewoman.

"And yeah," Your eyes meet hers and the smile is still just as genuine there. And her eyes are gorgeous. Like wow. "I am new, what gave it away?"

"Would've remembered your face," you blow out a ring or two. Your eyes meet hers again. She's still smiling.

"Is that a good thing?"

"It is," you return the smile. And it's lacking the same warmth hers isn't but you don't let that bother you. "You're pretty."

"You're prettier," You don't try to deny it, because you know it's true. But you smile like this is news to you, and you're charmed by it.

"I don't believe I caught your name," because you are a little enchanted by her. And she might be all the excuse you need to let someone else drive you home.

"I don't believe I gave it," The grin that curls your lips up must be positively radiant. It feels so.

"What a shame. I'll call you Freckles." She throws her head back and laughs and for whatever reason you think it's incredible.

"Not very imaginative," she smirks. "I've heard better."

"Like Soulless?"

"Rawr, kitty's got claws."

"And a name," Another hearty laugh from the mystery woman. You rather enjoy it. "It's Elsa." You bite your lip as her eyes sparkle, and when she grasps your hand to press a warm kiss to your knuckles you swear you must be blushing. But maybe you're just (in fact you ARE) still drunk.

"Enchanted," she breathes and you titter. Oh yes, yes you do. Bet you didn't even know you were capable of it.

"You should be," and there's that magical laughter again.

"I'm Anna," she draws her hand back to press it to her chest. You're oddly reminded of Tarzan. If only it were raining.

"And it is SO wonderful to make your acquaintance, _ Anna,_" and you love the way it rolls off your tongue. "So what brings such a pretty face to this... quaint little town?" You'll be the first to admit you hate small talk.

But you feel as though, _ Would you like to fuck? _ might be too much too soon. But there's that whole intoxicated thing. Maybe it's a good idea and you just don't know it yet.

"Hmm, well you see, if I told you that, I'd have to kill you," she must hate small talk as well. "But no, it would be too cheesy to say you, but heck, I'll just go ahead - this town was a happy accident, this bar was totally purposeful."

Both brows crawl upwards, and you purse your lips. You're trying not to laugh. But you feel such an odd urge to.

"Oh?"

"I mean," she's rubbing a hand through her hair, which is kinda short and wild, nervously smiling at you. "The first time was an accident, but I saw you here and..."

You should be alarmed. And probably frightened. If, indeed, this conversation is heading in the direction you think it is, this means pretty girl has been stalking you. Which is never a good thing for any reason. But you find yourself totally calm, and amused because Anna looks like a wide eyed child afraid of a scolding.

"Why, miss Anna," you put on your most dramatic southern belle accent. "Am I to be insinuating that this is your way of saying you're attracted to me!?" You throw your head back and gasp, one hand falling over your face. Positively the most distressed damsel.

"No ma'am, not at all," and she spits out a spaghetti western accent that brings back memories of your childhood fawning over old Clint Eastwood films with your mother. Smiling, breaking her character, "I'm attracted to you, lady Elsa. Very much so."

And if you weren't delighted by her before, you are now. Something about the confidence, plus the boldness. You appreciate it.

"Well I'll have you know," and you've already broken character, but that's fine, and you lean forward after casting your eyes around. You pull her closer with a handful of her shirt, but she doesn't mind at all. "That's _ Queen _ Elsa to you."

When you push her back, her smile is still shining, but her eyes are dark. It sends a chill racing down your back. In the best way. Breaking the gaze, and biting back a girlish giggle and stupidly large grin, you notice your whole reason for having come out here has all but burned to ash while you've been understandably distracted.

And it's too soon. But another cigarette is SO unnecessary. And another drink should be out of the question, but then you look back up to Anna, and she's watching your face. And you wonder if it's because she's trying to catch your eyes.

"Buy me a drink?" You fucking alcoholic.

"Buy me two," and that does make you giggle and you are really warming up to a near stranger aren't you? Cool your jets, girl.

"Why, but if I were to do that, how could you take me home?" Her eyes widen a fraction, and so do yours. You almost forgot you were drunk, didn't you?

"That _ is _a compelling argument," she allows, nodding slowly. "How bout this, we'll grab some roadies from Witt-" And color you surprised; she knows Witt by name?! "And take this party to my place?"

"Open alcoholic beverages the road? How scandalous!"

"Hardly," she laughs. Then leans closer. "But you wouldn't be interested if I were some doe-eyed good Samaritan, now would you, _ Your Majesty?_" And when her voice dropped a few octaves to utter your official-unofficial title, that sealed the deal. Flicking your cigarette butt away, you plant your elbows on the table and, propping your chin on the bridge of your fingers, offer with a saccharine smile,

"Let's compromise: I've got plenty of sips at home. Could you be a good Samaritan enough to give a gal a ride home and," you chuckle lowly, licking your lips, "give a gal a ride?"

Her smile never changes, never leaves. But her eyes are even darker than before. In this lighting, or lack thereof, they look almost black.

"I think I could do that," she stands, holding a hand out for you. "Just this once."

"Only once?" You ask (not-so-)innocently. Her chuckle is lower than yours had been, you take her hand and allow her to pull you up and close to her.

"For you, perhaps just a few more times," You hum and disengage from her, strutting away. But you don't hear her following and stop to glance over your shoulder st her. Staring at your gorgeous behind. Who wouldn't? You would if you could.

"Coming?" Her eyes meet yours. And she is unashamed.

"Not yet," and she walks over to you, palming your ass. "Give it an hour and ask me then."

Cocky little shit. But you eat it up.

"Will do."

* * *

**is this T? Why do I like using second person POV? Did anyone catch that SpongeBob reference? Did I really turn Kristoff into a girl? The answers to those questions and more will be revealed next week on the next episode of DON'T DRIVE DRUNK, IT'S FUCKING DANGEROUS!**


	2. Breakfast

The first thing you're aware of is pain. Not significant pain. More like the soreness of a good, of a great workout. Your muscles are tired and you're tired but at the same time you feel fabulous. Positively so. You did, after all, take part in a few rounds of awesome sex with an equally awesomely sexy gal from the bar. God. What was her name?

Ellen.

No... no that's not right.

Emily?

No still wrong.

Ellie...

Ellis...

sss... sa. Elsa. Elsa! Elsa Elsa Elsa, how could you forget a name like Elsa? After she carved those stinging lines in your back with her nails, screaming and howling your name all night, the least you could do is remember her name. You're an ass hole, congrats. And you're warm and most strangely well rested and you're still at her place aren't you?

It smells like her. And the naked body curled up against your own feels like her. Unless you're lucid dreaming in which case you totally own the market on lucid dreams. And what time is it? You don't have anywhere to be some might say you're your own boss so work isn't a problem for you. Might be for her though, perhaps you should wake her up.

And the very thought seemed to rouse her just enough to let out a soft sigh-groan and nuzzle against your collarbone. God she's soft. Her hair is like starlight. Her skin shines pale as the moon and when she's flushed and sweating and in the middle of a good fucking it's like... it's like being blind, but then getting the chance to witness a sunrise for the first time. It's God damn beautiful.

And seriously, how did you manage to even do this? You are not even attractive enough to land a gal like her. And okay, so maybe you obviously are, but you shouldn't be! She is like, reincarnation of Helen of Troy. And you are just... one lucky bitch.

And sore. It's been a while since you were so intense with another person that the next morning found you as sore as you are right now. You almost feel bad for Blondie now. If you're this sore you can't even imagine how she's going to feel. Well, you can, but you don't want to. The only thing you really want to do is take care of that which originally forced your mind into consciousness.

Your throbbing cock.

Morning wood is a fucking bitch. And you're proud of who and what you are but if you could change a few things it'd be awesome to not wake up all (Wo)Man of Steel. Especially right now. You almost want to scold it, _ Excuse me sir didn't you have enough last night? _Your dick is a dick. And you can't do anything about it because your lovely companion is using you for a body pillow.

Not that you mind, because you don't. But in this instance it could prove to be troublesome. Like, if she shifts the leg thrown over your waist any, you might never be able to get the fucker down.

_ Heh, my dick, the fucker, hehe. _

Okay but seriously, you've gotta rock a piss like nobody's business and this is not helping. In fact laughter made it worse, good going, jerk off, here's hoping you don't piss the sheets!... okay, slightly funny still. You've never once wet any bed - with urine, that is - it would most certainly figure that if you ever did, it would be in the bed of probably the single most beautiful woman you've ever had the pleasure to, uh, give a ride to.

_ Still not helping._

And it isn't. So you suck up your will, close your eyes tight and force your imagination in a dark dark direction. Picturing your great grandmother naked.

_ OH MY EYES, IT BUUUURNS_

The next step in the process involves slowly peeling yourself away from the ever lovely Elsa. Unhooking her leg from around your waist. Her arm from around your torso. Your arm back from around her waist. You were all cuddly nice. No wonder you slept so well. Alcohol doesn't usually agree with you and yours.

But pretty girls do. And as you very slowly roll out of the warm, inviting bed, you look back at a more disgruntled sleeping beauty, reaching around and mumbling incomprehensible words. She's looking for your body heat and it makes the dopiest grin appear upon your features. You feel giddy for some reason. Which might still be the fact that, wow, you actually managed to go home with a girl this drop dead gorgeous, go you!

_ And it's most certainly that, DAMN but she fine as hell._

You want to call someone or everyone and maybe scream from a mountaintop. But first you want to relieve your bladder. So you do that, after some searching for a bathroom of course. You could have just used the one conjoined to her room. But see then you'd wake her up, and that's just no fair to her.

Nice place she's got here. Yours is nicer but that's to be expected. And it's not a competition so it doesn't really matter all that much. But still. You find, once you're all happy and no more pressuring from gravity can put you in a state of discomfort, you find yourself curious about the rest of the place.

One night stands - and let's not slice it any other way, that is _exactly_ what this is - you take back to your place usually slip out in the night. Or morning. After they think you're so gone you won't notice. And you do but what does that really matter? They leave and you sigh and grumble to yourself. Roll over. Sleep till noon, get a scathing call from someone, get up with another sigh and grumble and do whatever is asked of you.

You wonder if you're supposed to do the same. Should you have left already? Should you leave now? Even if some part of you insists yes, the much larger part - it's a dick joke, get it? - argues otherwise. Maybe it won't be weird if you, like, make breakfast or something. Coffee is most certainly in order.

Can pretty hungover girls REALLY be all that mad if coffee and breakfast are waiting for them when they wake up? Maybe these are things to think about with pants on. Or some sort underwear. Something. It's actually fucking freezing in this apartment, holy balls!

You scamper back to the bedroom, quietly. Peek in and Elsa is now on her back with her arms stretched out and her mouth hanging open all sloppy. Is she drooling? She totally is. Was, was that a-

_ Oh my gosh, that's the cutest little baby snore I've ever heard!_

You don't even want to crawl back into bed with her. Which is a lie, you so want to, but you don't want to disturb how oddly adorable miss sex on legs is when she's dead asleep and alone in her bed. So you grab your favorite pair of boxers, the green pair with hot babes all over it wearing little bikinis, or maybe nothing, they're hiding behind hearts but, you pull those up your legs and decide that's perfect.

Time for coffee, you passed the kitchen on the way to the restroom. And if you know your kitchenware, and for whatever reason you do, you were almost certain you'd seen-

_ My God. It's true._

Saint of saints, holiest of all holies! She had one of those coffee thingies. Grinders. For beans... maybe you don't know kitchenware all that well, BUT you know what this is. And it makes regular, namebrand coffee look like horse shit. You weren't even aware such a heavenly creature as Irish cream coffee beans existed. But you are ready and willing to give it a try. What's funny is the bottle of 'cream' sitting next to the coffee maker itself.

It's a bottle of vodka.

You get started grinding beans. Lucky you, she's got one of those filters that are reusable for the coffee maker so you don't have to go searching for one of those. So once you've poured the freshly ground coffee... grounds into it, checked the level of water - man, but Elsa is prepared, always - and hit the brew button, you move on to step two of... whatever the fuck you're doing right now.

_Homemaking? _

Let's call it continuing to be a good Samaritan, and preparing Her Majesty to start the day. But golly gee you sure are pure of heart lately. But, you consider, the society that you are taking part in is rather fond of aesthetic appeal, and any person remotely attractive immediately receives more and better attention than those less attractive. You are slave to the whims of a people. You should make breakfast, hunger makes you think too much.

* * *

You're not entirely certain how you know the exact moment she wakes up but you do. Maybe you are already so attuned to the energy of her soul that your own recognizes when hers is roused.

Or maybe you heard her vomiting in her bathroom.

There's really no way of telling, but you know. And then you hear bare feet slapping against hardwood floors. It stops at the doorway into the kitchen. Low, a _ Sweet Jesus _ rings out behind you. And you chuckle as you slide an omelette onto a plate. Du fromage. But with bacon and sausage and chopped jalapenos and also like three different kinds of hot sauce you found in the fridge.

You decided to make it spicy when you'd had to search for the carton of eggs behind a collection of sriracha beer. Which is a thing like whoa why were you not aware of that? You figured she wouldn't mind, she was the one with all the spice available after all.

She comes into the kitchen, but not to you. Which is good, 'cause you need to clean up your mess so breakfast can be easy and simple and worry free. Nothing ruins breakfast like dishes, so as long as you do it now you can laze later. Elsa grabbed coffee cups, you notice when you glance over your shoulder. She's wearing a deep purple silk robe that ends at her thighs. Legs for days on that woman. And she's sipping a cup of black coffee.

Well, not entirely black.

The bottle of whipped cream vodka is open next to the empty cup she'd gotten out for you. You chuckle and her big blues snap open. She eyes you over the rim of her mug. You wonder if she's smiling behind it. Her eyes are sparkling.

"You made breakfast," she sets the mug down, stares at you as she leans back against the counter. She's smirking.

"And coffee." She chuckles, smiling fondly at her filled cup. And then she's looking at you again, eyes sharp. Questioning. They say, _ What are you still doing here? _ Or perhaps, _ Why are you doing this? _

And even you are still trying to figure that out. You keep telling yourself it's because you like to please pretty girls, because doing just that has this wonderful way of making you immensely happy. But it's like last night and you're going to be honest to yourself, she really caught your interest. And maybe this is weird but you'd very much like to know more than the warmth of her embrace. Though to be completely honest, you won't complain if that's all you'll have gotten out of this.

"I see that," she goes to the little table she has set up in the corner, closer to the doorway, cup in hand. There she perches on a chair and waits patiently for you to bring the food. You almost laugh. But you only smile as you shake the water from your hands and make your way back to the food you prepared, carrying it over to the table. "Why is it orange?"

"Because hot sauce is red," You don't say duh, but your tone screams it. And she's smiling, but only after she rolls her eyes at you. Those same eyes close in what you assume is bliss when she picks up her fork and takes a bite. The low moan that slips from her lips screams euphoria. She really MUST love hot foods.

"Oh," she chews and swallows slowly, eying you. "And nice shirt, by the way." You look down at your bare chest, and back to her. But she's got her eyes closed, taking a long, slow slurp of coffee.

"Um, I'm not-"

"I know." She's smiling when she sets the cup down and her eyes on you. Then she winks. You find laughter bubbling up, shake your head slowly at her. Smirking, you start,

"Nice panties," confusion clouds her expression, and she looks ready to confirm your suspicions - that in fact she's not wearing any - but then something clicks. Her smile returns, twice as large, and SHE starts to laugh.

"Naughty," she chides, but still smiling, "Perhaps I'll have to show you how much nicer they look on the floor."

"I think I've seen that one," you take a bite of your own omelette - skills, holy shit, mad cooking skills award goes to...! - and tell her, after you swallow, "I think you might just wear them better, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?"

"Well I don't want offend your floor, but," leaning closer, you cup a hand around your mouth, loudly whispering to her, "I find you MUCH more attractive." Giggling behind her hand, she leaned forward as well,

"Don't worry, the floor never has to know."

Expression gravely serious, you nod once. "Good." And she really starts to giggle then. Because you can't even remember the last time you were this much of a goofball in front of anyone. Even your companions are not aware of this side of yourself. But it feels so good, like this is something you could do forever.

_ Whoa starry eyes, calm down now it's just breakfast._

She's still watching you. And although the remnants of mirth are still dancing in her eyes you notice a growing curiosity that can't possibly be tamed for long. So you eat slowly, at one point you even get up to fill your own cup with coffee. It was still on the counter next to the vodka.

And because it is so available and you do feel a touch nervous, you sweeten your own with a splash (or two or three) of the vodka. It's at the point that you sit back down opposite of her that she decides to speak again.

"So," she's almost finished with the omelette. And you get a bad feeling about this conversation, but hey... She ate the omelette. And that's... well that's at least something. "You made coffee and breakfast." Still slowly devouring your own breakfast, you answer with a slow nod,

"This is true." And then wait for her to continue.

"And, I'm going to be very blunt so try not to take it the wrong way," she pauses for half a second, "Um, why?"

"Why is truth?" She gives you a look that isn't quite a glare. But it's something unamused. You laugh anyway. "I guess you could say... how do I put this - you are FUCKING hot. And I mean, I'm not entirely ugly but like, wow. I went home with you last night, and maybe you think that was a drunk mistake, but that's something I'd be interested in doing again."

"Getting drunk and going home with a hot girl?"

And now you imagine your expression matched the one she'd pulled before. You roll your eyes at her when she grins that delightfully catty grin and giggles. Barreling forward,

"I guess what I'm no good at saying is, do you wanna be hot together? Maybe in not-a-bar? Possibly with food?"

"Are you asking me to dinner?"

"Or breakfast or lunch, really. Are you agreeing?" She hums lowly, picking at her omelette again. Finishing her first cup of coffee and going back for a second. Really just making you wait, for like, ever. And you don't outwardly express that you are growing steadily more nervous. But you totally fucking are holy shit she could answer any day now and that'd be fucking great.

"I suppose," she starts as she seats herself before you once more. "That could be arranged." You don't let your relieved sigh wheeze out of you, in fact you smirk and lean closer to her, elbows on the table,

"Don't sound so excited, Queenie."

"About another peasant vying for my attention? Oh I'm positively overjoyed." And the weird part is that she actually is and you can tell. So you chuckle and nod, smug smile on your face.

"Good."

* * *

** Happy happy happy day of smoking to all my brethren. Pass the love on the left hand side**

**So show of hands did anyone expect g!p? I know I didn't. Not even my fault. I may or may not have been inspired by certain songs. Involving Yo-landi and Ninja... OKAY, good days to all! **


	3. Bouncer

_This is strange..._

You're aware of that fact, it'd be kind-of hard not to be aware of it. You won't claim to be the smartest most logical person on God's green Earth, in fact the only thing you'd really claim to be is the most damn beautiful alcoholic ever created, BUT even you can admit to things that make sense. This is not one of those things. None of any of this makes any sort of sense.

For starters, you can count ON ONE HAND the number of times you have taken a near-complete-stranger home with YOU. The other way around? Yeah that's happened a couple times. Like probably a lot of them. Mama's got an itch, it needs to be scratched, simple as that. But this is quite literally the second time you have ever allowed another person into your home that you met that night. It's unheard of; you don't trust people, fucking sue you but you don't.

Secondly, she actually stayed the night. And maybe it's been a while since you've participated in an ONS (one night stand) but you would swear there's an unspoken rule about leaving in the morning. Or before the morning. You wouldn't claim to be an expert, but that's usually what you did. There was only one time you'd gone against that unspoken rule and in the morning his girlfriend had tried to smother you with a pillow.

Seems she hadn't liked that not only were you a much better fuck, but you were much better looking too.

_Sour grapes taste like garbage I bet._

And the final thing. The final thing that made it one of the strangest experiences to date... that was the fact that she stayed to make breakfast AND coffee. Like, on Elsa's list of top ten panty dropping things NUMBER ONE - fucking make you some food. (and coffee) You were a caffeine-addicted fat kid at heart, and she, she made the food spicy.

Which was the moment you had to stop yourself from asking her to marry you. It was so hot you had tears in your eyes. And she was mostly naked and her body... Like, fucking fuck. You try to recall asking her what she did. But you never asked her that because you are selfish and you were drunk and you wanted to ride her face. What you DO remember is finding out that she had a cock. And being totally calm about it.

Maybe for half a second you were confused, but then the fact you've dated a handful of trans people before soothed your confusion and reminded you that the dick was hard and your pussy was wet.

_Maybe I'd have more friends if I was less vulgar..._

But she's hot. And beautiful. And you agreed in the most roundabout way you could to go on a date with her because you were chomping at the bit to but you are Elsa, damnit. You are too fucking cool to act like a squealing, love sick banshee fangirl. You are cool and spicy. You are awesome. You got this.

"So I suppose I should get out of here..." You bite your tongue. The most overwhelming urge to make her stay struck you. Be cool, cool like ice. Cooler than cool like ice cold. Absolute Kelvin up in this bitch.

"I suppose," you sound as excited about the prospect of her leaving as you are. Which is not at all. She smiles, forcing your own scowl to retreat, if momentarily.

"Awww, grumpy cat is grumpy," she coos at you. You roll your eyes. She's easy to be around. Which is a remarkable thing to say, for you, because you dislike most people. You barely like your friends. Kristy is an exception, but still.

_I change my mind. I'd have more friends if I was nice n shit. _

Which is laughable. You're content with your social circle, mostly because it's too damn much energy you'll waste trying to build a new or bigger one.

"I can kick you out, you know," you warn her. But it's an empty threat, and wether or not she's aware of it she only smiles anyway.

"Won't be the first time," she chuckles. "Can I at least get dressed first?" And then you laugh, because inexplicably you imagine this beautiful stranger running ass naked out of some faceless person's apartment.

"I'll think about it," you offer with a grin and wink. For a moment she looks horrified, something in her eyes flashes, you read it as, _ Oh God please not again_. And you laugh once more, but harder. Now you almost want to keep playing along, but you've broken character again so it's too late. She sighs, in relief, and slumps down.

"I almost thought you were serious!" She slaps a hand to her bare chest, over her, you assume rapidly, beating heart. "I mean once was bad enough, but a fourth time...!" And you'll probably stop laughing sometime soon. After you stop choking on the sip of coffee that's about to come shooting out of your nose. Which, like, fucking ow.

"I-I-" still laughing, but it's calming slightly, you wheeze out _ Oh fuck, _ And wipe a tear from your eye. "I almost was. FOUR fucking times?"

"It's NOT funny!"

"No, it's fucking hilarious!" And her pout is so ridiculous and exaggerated you crack up. Again. How much fucking alcohol did you put in this cup? And you don't laugh, not like this, never this often, but it must be infectious because she shakes her head slowly, and then she's laughing too. And you both kinda just do that for a bit.

She's so easy to be around. She's like Kristy in that regard. The difference between the two, of course, being that you don't really want to ride Kristy's face. Plus she seems to read you about as easily as you read her. Which is terrifying, but intriguing. She's much smarter than she lets on, which you appreciate. You put up with exactly no amount of idiocy.

Maybe you're full of yourself - and you are. Yeezus wishes he was full of you - but you are too God damn intelligent to put up with that sort. You refuse.

"The first time I actually deserved it," she admits eventually. "But the other two were NOT my fault."

"Oh, I'm sure they weren't. Innocent angel like you? Nah, couldn't have been your fault at all." Sarcasm tastes like sugar on your lips. Or maybe that's the vodka.

* * *

You feel exactly no shame for convincing one last round of good - but most importantly, sober - fucking out of your dear guest before you let her slip out of your apartment. The excuse, not that you'd needed one but it did feel better to have one, had been that you both needed a shower, and you obviously needed someone to wash your back for you.

Which, of course, loosely translated into you asking her to bend you over and fuck you sideways, but in a shower setting. And she was damn good at that. Seriously, she was fit. She'd told you that she was a bouncer when you asked what she could possibly do to need to stay that fit, and that had been a lie but if it had been the truth it would've made a lot of sense.

"If it was a lie, why are so calm about it?" The first person to show up at your doorstep looking for answers had been Kristy. Because you'd never answered any of the texts she'd sent you last night to let her know you made it home safe. On purpose. You knew her well, knew she'd be showing up, and knew you'd want someone to swoon over your departed companion with.

"I think she's a spy," it sounded as ridiculous out loud as it had in your head. "She could be Stan Smith, and in which case would be obligated to lie about her job."

"She must be really attractive," is what Kristy says, but her eye roll speaks louder. It says, _ she must have fucked you real good_, which is also true. And Kristy would know, you'd just forced her to listen to all the dirty details.

"Yes, but she's not more attractive than me," which was an important thing to you. Some people didn't want to date someone taller or younger or smarter than they were, you didn't like to date people hotter than you are. It was your thing. And everyone had one. Some had more than one.

"Not many people are more attractive than you, to be fair," you smile at your reflection in the mirror. Blow kisses. Damn straight they aren't. "So you're just going to go out with her, then?"

What she means by that is,_ blah blah judgement blah blah you're better than this blah blah I only say this because I love you. _ But she also knows you won't listen if she goes on one of those long winded, well meaning rants she's so fond of mother hen-ing you and you're group of friends with.

She means well... You just don't particularly give a shit all that much. You are first last and loudest to admit your own brand of selfish bitch.

"Listen," you start as you spin around on your stool. Your vanity is classy as shit, the stool is useful and necessary. "I need you to understand something -I don't do this shit. I'm too old and smart to do this shit. You think I don't know better? You think I'm not second guessing myself?" As you spoke you slipped off your stool, stepping over to her. You hold her chin, lightly shake it for emphasis,

"Think AGAIN!" She swats your hand away. You back up, grinning. She tries not to return it, but succumbs to the power of your mirth. So she chuckles and you grin wider and turn back around to study your reflection and make certain your image is that of perfection. It is.

"I like her," you admit, softly, eyes tracing down to your feet, and your painted toe nails. A sparkling blue. Like your eyes. "A lot." It's got to be insane, slightly terrified laughter that bubbles up and out of your mouth in the form of a subdued chuckle. "I guess I'm giving her a chance to tell me the truth."

"And that's more than you'll do for most people," it's light and airy. She's teasing you and you appreciate her attempt to take the pressure off of those words. So you wink, playfully,

"That's right, sweet cheeks," and you both laugh. And then,

"But I don't care how fit she is, or what secret job she might have, she hurts you and I'll rip out her still beating heart, then make her eat it." You try not laugh, because you know she's serious. But you do.

"I'll make sure to tell her that."

* * *

**So has anyone seen that movie, Still Alice? I wanted to see it originally because Kristen Bae Stewart is in it... But nobody warned me the title was really only just short for "Rip out my still beating heart, Alice"**

**And one last thing - if you really think Anna is g!p for the purposes of sex and smut, THINK A-FUCKING-GAIN. I won't claim to be a fucking scientist but REALLY I'm not such a simple gal. **

**Kay thanks, all of this was written to OutKast's ATLiens album. I love y'all, have a lovely lovely day wherever you, and if you aren't having a lovely day punch someone in the face, as long as they deserve it. Forgive mistakes, BYEEEE!**


	4. Number

You almost regret giving her your number. It's something you guard with your life. Information that precious and sacred can't just be handed to every Tom, Dick, and Susan in the world to do with as they please. Hell, last time you had to get a new phone you contemplated not telling your friends the new number.

But then there came that whole 'increasing your social circle or abandoning the current to find a new one is really tedious work' thing that ultimately made you decide to keep 'em.

But you gave her your number. She'd been inside your home, and body, and you were interested in her. And it had taken more than that to trust other people with your number. It made no logical sense that you had given her your number. And you aren't just saying that because she's yet to call.

And you aren't _ staring_ at your phone either. You just happen to be very intently checking the time. Continuously. Without blinking.

_ Thank fuck Kristy left, doesn't have to be witness to this display of pathetic._

You feel as though it's in your right to get a bit sassy about it.

"I am the sexiest, most beautiful, gorgeous thing she has ever met... where you at Freckles? You better be dying or dead right now." Which isn't funny and you regret saying it immediately, probably due to the fact the last time you said that daddy had a heart attack and died. But you're starting to get angry. Or frustrated.

Frightened.

Fucking terrified.

You like her. YOU like her. That's horrifying. You wouldn't trust yourself as far as you can throw an empty bottle of Rosé, and so far you've trusted your judgement so much you've done things you would NEVER do in any regular situation.

You. Don't. Trust. People. They're awful, sick creatures. And maybe that's a gross overgeneralization of the human condition, but thus far it's been mostly true. You even met Kristy in the middle of a bar fight. She was ripping some girl's hair out of her head. And she's a good person, obviously, but she still succumbs to her nature at times. And you're worse than her, you trust her more than yourself. Which should show in your current regrets.

You fucking gave her your number.

"God, I should've just asked for hers!" You groan as you slump down on the couch. That would have solved a lot of problems. You get it, of course you do; she's probably as waist deep in second guesses and regret as you are right now. You were both very eager and moving faster than the speed of light and the game was supposed to be played slow and the first rule was to NOT appear overly eager.

She was taking this time to pace out some shit. To play the chill card. Like you would have played if she'd given you her number. You would have been giddy (and frustratedly bored) to make her wait for it. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and the such.

"But... why, why past stupid self, why did you give her my number? What were you thinking?" And why did you kick Kristy out as soon as you could? At this moment you would have loved something to take your mind off this. But you did this to yourself. You stupid, stupid girl you. You sigh, this sorrowful, suffering, dramatically inclined sort of sigh.

Beating yourself up will only make you feel better for so long. And so long isn't terribly long. Not at all. You could always get drunk of course. But you always get drunk anyway, so it's not really an especially distracting thing. It's like lying or sarcasm, just a natural physical reaction to your body existing. Except you don't produce alcohol, just consume it in an impressively swift fashion.

And maybe that's something you could do to pass the time, look into brewing. Or better yet, find a brewery and demand work. Learn secrets or steal secrets. Sell out. Make millions...

"Well, now I've got life goals. Mummy would be so proud," you finally push yourself up off the couch, walking away from your phone. The traitorous bastard won't ring, so you've got better things to do. Or you'll find better things to do.

_ Why must I struggle to fill time on days off?_

Maybe this phenomenon plagued others and you could start one of those self help groups. Or maybe you could do something genuinely productive with your life, like laundry. You do, after all, have some sheets that are in dire need of a good washing. Plus some towels, two and a half weeks worth of clothes, and an outfit or two of Kristy's clothing (you two were prepared for several occasions of her being here for any purpose).

"I suppose I'm also starting to get short on underwear," which, to be certain, is the exact only reason you are considering this idea heavily. Plus, laundry day is all the excuse you need to lounge around naked for half the day... "Good enough for me." You shuck your clothes, letting out a soft, pleased sigh as the cool air of your apartment kissed your naked flesh.

Much better.

You make your way to your bedroom, tripping over a jacket on the floor, throwing the closet doors open upon reaching them... ok, maybe you had a _bit_ more than two weeks worth of clothes to wash. Seriously, you could hide a body in that pile. And that jacket only adds to it!... wait.

That's not your jacket.

You pick it up, and on some odd impulse you put it on. It settles comfortably on your shoulders. But heavily on one side. You slip a hand in the pocket. You try not to laugh at what you pull out. But misfortune is amusing when it's not plaguing you. And the lovely Anna left more than just her jacket.

"Kinda hard to drive home with no keys, eh?" You chuckle to yourself. You put them back in the pocket, turning back to your pile of clothes, dragging it out of the closet into the middle of your floor. Next you turn to your bed and begin stripping it, wrapping it around your clothes. You like to think of this as Santa's bag of goodies every time you haul the whole heavy load over your shoulder on your infrequent laundry days.

Another fucking joke. You need less fucking clothes, holy shit. Why must you be so beautiful and perfect and look so good in so much? And why must you be so lazy about doing laundry? Too heavy to carry, you end up dragging the load through your apartment to your teeny laundry room, right next to the other bathroom.

Maybe, you muse, maybe she'll call sooner now? Maybe she'll show up at the door and you'll greet her like this? Maybe you should stop being so desperate; like fucking wow you're an adult and a strong independent one at that. You should really calm down about this. You should stop thinking about her, just do your damn laundry.

And take the damn jacket off! Sheezus, what's wrong with you? You reach up to grab the collar, pull it off your shoulders. But you rub your thumbs over the material. It's real leather, and it's been worn to a softness. Ok, so but if this doesn't work out you should totally snag this jacket it's incredibly comfortable.

And it makes you feel like a bad bitch. And you so are. In fact, you're such a bad bitch that when you hear your phone ring you squeal and tear off through the apartment. You hit your big toe seconds before you reach it, trip, and hit that one part of your knee that is the equivalent of the funny bone for the leg.

"FUCK. SHIT. PISS. BALLS. CUNT. MOTHER FUCKER!" You reach blindly for the phone, biting back further, harsher expletives. "Hello?" Your tone comes off breathless, like you're trying to seduce. You just can't breath all that much you're hurting way too hard for that shit. This is probably why you should wear clothes.

"_ Oh thank god you picked up,_" You aren't sure wether to laugh or cry or scream and throw your phone across the room.

"Kristy," you bite out. The words, _ you've met with a terrible fate haven't you? _ ring through your head. "What do you want?"

"_I... whoa don't sound so excited._"

"I'm not. What do you want?" It's only because you love her so very much you haven't told her what's good with the most colorful language possible and hung up on her.

"_I need your help,_"

"Of course you do."

"_ Shut up. I've got a date, my favorite dress is at your place-_"

"It's in the wash."

"_ You fucking whore, I turned around and everything!_" You laugh into your device, finally picking yourself up off the floor. Your knee is still throbbing something awful, but you make a powerful effort and limp yourself back to the laundry room. Thankful you hadn't started the washer yet, you finish loading and setting it.

"Sucks for you," you reply absently, cradling your phone between your head and shoulder as you add fabric softener. That accomplished, you close the washer and step away, this time taking the trip through your apartment slower. It's a much more successful one. You throw yourself onto the couch, stretching your body across the cushions, sighing. Content. "You tryina come chill boo?"

"_ How long is the wash gonna take?_"

"Just started it," she curses and you chuckle, shifting onto your back and staring up at the ceiling. "Stop being a puss monster and come chill with me."

"_ You kicked me out less than thirty minutes ago..._"

"Well that was when I was expecting some amount of sexting. But now I'm thinking we should binge watch Monsters Inside Me."

"_ I've got a date..._"

"Tonight, right? Well right now it's one. We've got at least four hours to chillax. So let's do that. I'll help you do your hair, makeup, and let you borrow a dress."

"_Hmmm, tempting..._"

"Shut up and get over here." She laughs then, and agrees, telling you it'll be just a second. So when you hear that knock on the door about thirty of them later, immediately you assume it's that one special girl in your life you don't actually hate. Your robe is in your room, and you almost don't stop to grab it. But last time you did this to her she punched you in the tit. Hard.

So with a sigh, and a yell of, "Keep your fucking pants on, I'm coming!" Because the knocking is getting impatient, you quickly make your way to your room shedding the jacket just long enough to pull on the robe, and then you're yelling at the door as you make your way to it.

"I said calm your fucking titties!" You throw the door open, glaring and growling but smiling. And you freeze for half a second, eyes growing wide. They meet equally wide eyes. "Oh. It's you. Hey." But she doesn't answer quite yet. Her eyes are devouring the lovely lovely cut of your figure clad in only your favorite robe and her leather jacket.

"Hi," she breathes, grin stretching her mouth. It seems you took her by surprise. Good. But honestly... she should have just fucking called.

"Can I help you?" And you know you can. You're aware why she's here. But you may or may not feel a certain way about the phone silence. She seems to realize it. Shuffling her feet, eyes dropping from yours, she chuckles. But without humor.

"Uhmm, long time no see, eh?" You don't laugh. Hers is significantly subdued. "Hah, alright alright I get it. How bout this, you keep that there jacket because it looks _ much _ better on you, and I'll take my keys?"

Straight faced, brows furrowed, you ask so sincerely, "what keys?" Because you are cruel indeed and watching her face pale is quite comical. Your laughter breaks through and relief washes over her. Reaching into your pocket, finally smiling you pull out the keys. She reaches for them but you pull your hand back. "What'll you give me for 'em?"

Very seriously she responds, "A hard spanking." With a grin you hold your hand out, keys dangling from your fingertips. But before she can grab them you pull your hand back.

"Is that a promise?" But she's grinning now, wickedly. And that's all the answer you need. So you drop her keys into her hand and she thanks you and turns to walk away. But you stop her with a hand on her shoulder. When she glances back at you you smile your most winning smile. "And you better fucking call me, kay?"

Her chuckle seems nervous. Good. She nods though and backs away slowly, hands held out defensively. You close your door with a roll of your eyes - as if THAT could stop you if you were truly put out - but you're giddy.

Okay. You bite you lip to hold back uncharacteristically girlish giggles. You aren't even drunk. For once. But like.

Maybe you _are_ pathetic.

But, like, you really REALLY don't regret giving her your number.

* * *

**I was doing laundry when I wrote this. Can you tell? **

**Almost broke the device I use to write on today. And I busted my ass... I'M GOING TO BE VISITING MY BEST FRIEND IN A FEW DAYS! Good news is she enjoys my writing and helping me write, so she'll jump on my ass to be a good miss lady author and actually do shit. **

**Does anyone else love The Sounds like I do? Did I skim over a very startlingly tragic death in Elsa's life? Can anyone even remember that awesome Jackie Chan cartoon anymore?! The answer to these questions... right now: maybe, totally, and I hope so. KAY BYEEE**


	5. New

** I've introduced my best friend to Zelda. Best. Decision. EVER! **

* * *

For once you actually pay attention when Kristy rambles on about... whatshisface. The guy she's going out with tonight. Well. Mostly. Sorta. You listen to the important parts, and that counts as actually listening intently. For you.

Anyway.

You look for... signs. And she's eating the attention up so she keeps yammering on. You look for signs that this is or could be you. How to be hot and cool and mysterious is as simple as doing the exact opposite of what Kristy's doing now. And... okay if you're honest, for like half a sec, you may or may not also be trying to sniff out affection. This seems surprising to you for some reason but you aren't really the most affectionate person. And you aren't really an approachable person.

You're barely a person. So close to being a goddess that interacting with these mortals is in fact a feat of Herculean standards. And it's not that you don't understand how to show affection and be affectionate... it's more like trying for it to not feel so... so foreign. So new and alien. You're a sexy E.T. and you want to go home.

Planet Bitch. Where you snap and snark and everyone is either okay with it or they learn to get the fuck over it and if they don't you crush them under your heels. A few choice words can, in fact, cut a person down as effectively as any sword. It's about knowing a person well enough to know what choice words to use. Being smart enough to pick out weaknesses and exploit them.

Cruel and heartless. That's what you're good at. But you feel... _ things. _ Technically good. And you like it. But it's weird. But Anna's really hot and you want to try to be... good. Ish. So through Kristy you are attempting a venture in understanding. Look at you, being an adult and shit. You almost want to tell someone. Like Kristy. But that would ruin the moment.

"Are you sure?" You roll your eyes at her concern. "I mean, I prefer my hair down personally. I'm just. What if it gets cold?"

"You're from the mountains," you try to say it lightly but the words fall from your lips gracelessly. "I think you'll be fine." True to that promise, you'd gotten the call from Freckles maybe ten minutes ago. Cocky little shit had presumed to tell you she'd pick you up tomorrow at eight. You'd agreed, in a manner of speaking.

_"Hmm well that's nice and all, I'll be ready at eight thirty, so."_

Couldn't very well have her believing she wore the pants in this romantic venture. Despite you'd yet to wear any around her. Kristy is still fidgety. And you finally sigh, putting the final pin into place. You step back and pat her shoulder.

"At least you know where you're going for dinner," you tell her with a smile that is far from sweet. A smile with teeth bared. If only your teeth were sharper. She giggles, but nervously.

"That's true. But she _did_ give you a heads up on what to wear!"

When you'd asked where you were going she'd told you not to worry about it. When you complained about not knowing what to wear, then, she'd said only, _"My fucking leather jacket, with anything, or nothing. Just as long as you wear that."_

The only comfort you have is that her jacket makes you look more like sex than you already do. So, well done. You accomplished the impossible. You fucking goddess you.

"Hmm," you hum eventually, removing yourself from Kristy. You need a drink. And also to sit and watch the marathon of Monsters Inside Me you'd put on. "Man... they killed that bitch dead. She didn't even have a chance, like... damn." You don't need to look at Kristy to know her grimace. She hate-loves this show. Because it's gruesome and brutal and disgusting. But it's also incredibly interesting and educational.

"Brain eating bacteria, yo. It don't play games," she agrees, stepping around you and plopping herself down on the cushion right next to you. You think, _ rubbing elbows with the finest,_ and then chuckle. Shaking your head when Kristy pins you with a curious sort of stare. She rolls her eyes at your lack of response. "Glad you think brain eating bacteria is so funny."

"To be fair, it kind of is. We, the great and powerful homo sapiens, strongest or at least smartest of those that have come... taken down by an organism so tiny we can't even comprehend it's size, or even see it without the help of a microscope!"

"... yeah, that's... totally hilarious," she says it with no small amount of sarcasm and skepticism.

"Basically, better her than me." She does chuckle then. But at you.

"Now that sounds like you," You resist the urge to roll your eyes until you see your fucking brain. You may not have done much with your schooling but that doesn't mean you didn't have it. What; are you TOO beautiful to be intelligent!?

_ Knew I should have become a doctor._

They didn't have to be nice because it was nurses that did all the personal shit. You would have been rich, beautiful, brilliant, feared, respected... Basically the same as now, but as a DOCTOR. Which just sounds better. Dr. Eisenman. Yeah. Professional.

"Anyway, I told him to just pick me up from here," Kristy informs you. But the look in her eyes makes it sound more like, _I hope that's okay? _ You grunt, smiling only suddenly.

"Tell 'em to bring beer." (He doesn't.)

* * *

She takes you to a taco truck. Of all places. She takes you to a fucking taco truck. You laugh when she parks, and laugh harder at the expression that pulls from her. You'd had work today. And you'd considered informing the crew that you had faith in them and you wouldn't be showing up today.

But unfortunately you didn't have faith in them. The bunch of stoners that work for you, while nice enough, had lost your faith the day they'd accidentally locked themselves in the freezer and had proceeded to eat half the stock. Fucking idiots. And you still weren't even certain if that _accident _was very accidental.

But you'd had work today and you were exhausted and as much as you were admittedly excited for this little get together, you were just... not looking forward to being in pubic, dressed up and pretending that any fuck existed for you to give. And she had taken you to a taco truck.

You wrap a hand around the back of her neck and pull her forward to press an uncharacteristically affectionate kiss to her soft mouth. You aren't sure who's more surprised by it. You whisper against her lips,

"You perfect fucking creature," and pull back before she can snap into action and return your happiness. And then you're getting out of the car and stepping forward. She catches up to you quickly, pouting. "Aww, poor baby." You coo at her.

She gives you the finger.

"You're lucky you're hot."

"Luck has nothing to do with it, this is all genetics." She smiles at you, and it's a strange smile. She says,

"Well thank science for that, eh?" You hum, turning away you consider the menu. It's on the side of the truck. The meat is listed in bold green letters underneath the word _carnes_. They are asada, buche, tripa, pastor, lengua, chicharron, barbacoa, pollo, and chorizo. And you feel almost embarrassed that the only three you recognize are the last three. The rest of the menu is listed in bold red letters next to the meat, it says tacos, tortas, gorditas, burritos, and enchiladas.

"So what're you thinkin'? Cuz their tacos are to die for." You shrug, she smiles, and steps past you to the part of the truck where the orders are taken. The ladies inside, because yes the truck is filled exclusively with a handful of older Hispanic ladies, all step forward and start speaking to Anna in rapid fire Spanish.

And she speaks back, in perfectly fluent Spanish. And high school was a long time ago. You graduated some odd six or seven years prior. And the two Spanish classes you'd taken had been in your freshman and sophomore years. But you still feel as though you should understand at least a LITTLE of what they are saying.

You don't, and before you know it she hands over a ten dollar bill, stuffing the six dollars she gets back into the tip jar on the lip of the window sill the ladies crowd about. They crow out what must be thanks and praises and then the sound of meat sizzling on a grill, intermixed with chatter in Spanish, fills the air between you and your date.

She turns around and moves back to your side, looping an arm around yours. She's smiling. You roll your eyes at her, even make a valiant attempt to not smile back. But you fail.

"What? You want a cookie?" You reach over with your free hand - the one that isn't curled around hers - and pinch her cheek. She just continues to smile, the little shit.

"Only if it's _ your _ cookie," and you roll your eyes harder than you've ever rolled your eyes. Forget your brain, you saw your soul that time, poor shriveled thing that it is.

"How did I know you'd say that?"

"Because I'm hilarious." And cue smug grin.

"Oh yes," you intone. "Ha. Ha... ha." She chuckles nonetheless, untangling herself from you to pick up the order they place on the counter. She exchanges a few more words with one of the ladies, and shortly the woman disappears into the back of the truck. When she reappears she's holding a little plastic cup filled with something green, which she hands off to Anna.

"Alrighty," Anna chirps as she turns on her heel to face you, hands full of food and that green shit. "Are you ready?"

"For tacos?" She shakes her head, chuckling, smile growing.

"Not quite." She ushers you back into the car, setting the food down to open the door for you AS SHE SHOULD. You are still Queen after all. Just a queen in skinnies and sneakers. It's only when she is comfortably seated in the driver's seat - the plate of tacos wrapped in aluminum foil sit in the floor behind her seat - that she deigns to inform you what she meant by not quite.

"A drive-in movie theater? You're lying," you can feel the grin overtaking your features. "There's no way." But there most certainly is. There is so very much way. And when she drives up and you see the feature presentation is _Young Frankenstein_ you simply can't help yourself. You at least wait until she parks before you kiss her silly. Even allow her to kiss you back.

Briefly.

She actually pulls back. Smiling wide, licking her lips. She's flushed but hardly panting. Unlike you. So maybe this whole giving her a chance thing wasn't such a bad idea. She's cute. AND she can kiss you breathless. Which is a lethal combination. Only made more so by the fact that, as the movie begins and she grabs the tacos from behind her seat... She also withdraws a cooler you'd never bothered to notice - and _why_ would you? - from behind your seat.

Containing that pepper beer you love so much.

"You bitch," you say it almost under your breath. "How dare you drop my panties to the floor. Do you even understand how hard it will be to find them?" Her grin is answer enough, but she says,

"Leave 'em." And you laugh and reach for a taco and a beer. And you settle back into the seat and enjoy the burn of the homemade hot sauce - green, because, and you quote, "This red sauce is made of devil's blood and will make you regret every ounce of your existence [as she drenched her three tacos in said sauce]." - and that of the beer mixing together in a concoction of fire on your tongue so potent your eyes are literally watering. You are in fact crying it's so hot.

And the car stinks of onions. Positively reeks of them. You're sweating, barely able to discern the images on the screen through your tears of painphoria (that lovely mix of pain and euphoria only available through the consumption of spice). And you're exhausted. But when you aren't clutching an equally sweating bottle of beer, on the middle console your hands linger together, intertwined.

And you know, if you were the sort to have thoughts like those... perhaps you would call this the perfect date. Exactly what you needed after the day you've had. But you aren't, so you don't.

_ This is adequate, _ You decide, smiling to yourself, allowing the warm press of lips to the back of your hand. _Adequate indeed._

* * *

**Don't be rude now Folks! And have a lovely whatever.**


	6. Sometimes

Sometimes you get sad. Sometimes after a long, dull day, you come home in an odd sort of somber mood. And you are struck with an odd urge to cry. Sometimes you miss daddy. Sometimes you miss the woman your mother used to be and the woman you were supposed to be. Sometimes you get home and all you can think to yourself is that it isn't really Witt's fault that you're an alcoholic.

At those times you think that it's damn lucky you have so much alcohol, because those loud thoughts are easier to drown out with booze. Tonight is one of those nights, you feel empty and barren. Like someone came and scooped out your innards. An empty husk you gladly fill with liquor.

Until even your numbness is unbearable. Something lives inside of you. Underneath your skin, something that writhes and twitches. It makes you itch. It makes your skin feel tight. And it is restless, even as your vision warps in and out, spinning and blurry; it is awake and it keeps you awake and you're in tears by one.

Sometimes it's awful to know people as you like to know people. Which is well and personally. Knowing them makes it easier to keep them from knowing you. The people you know don't battle chronic insomnia, or alcoholism. They sleep when the sun goes down. They don't turn to the drink for comfort and attempts to feel normal. You know that texting your _ friends _ will be fruitless and only further frustrate you.

So it is with some amount of desperation that you call someone else. Someone you don't really know.

"Hey," you breathe into the receiver and it sounds remarkably calm. Considering you most certainly aren't, it's something of a great feat. "Do you... wanna come over and get drunk and watch cartoons?"

A chuckle is your initial answer. And you could cry again. She doesn't even sound a little tired. Even though it's one forty five, because it took you that long to work up the nerve to bother her, and you want to tell her that you could love her.

Not that you DO, but that you could.

Still, you resist that urge and when she tells you she'll be there in fifteen minutes you reply in a tone you'd like to think of as expectantly regal, "Good. You'd better." And hang up, without a goodbye. Because that's what you would do in a normal circumstance. You'd be a royal bitch. Because that's what you are. You are a royal fucking piece of shit bitch that pretends to be something better and greater that you are.

And you really hope Anna gets here soon.

And she does, by the saints she gets there in eleven minutes and she's holding a six pack of Hopslam and it's been three days since you two had your first date but you pull her in and slam her back against the door to kiss her until your lips hurt. And maybe your face is wet with tears.

But as you draw back and allow her to breathe she smiles. With her free hand she reaches up to stroke your cheek, fondly,

"Hey beautiful," she kisses you, but your temple not your mouth. "Ready for some 'toons?" She holds you close while you laugh. Although it might be closer to crying. And thusly you get your second date with Anna. Drunk and sad and watching Steven Universe.

The whole of the time you spend together, she holds you close. In between her legs, leaning back against her chest, and with her arms wrapped around your waist you inform her, quite close to incoherently, why this children's show is not actually fit for children. Why you, as a twenty four-year-old adult, are rather within your right to watch it without shame.

You tell her about how it was created. Why. You tell her minor snippets about the characters. You skip around a few episodes to ruin a few surprises, because a drunk discussion about a not-so-children's cartoon sounds absolutely heavenly. And she must witness certain things first in order to discuss.

And when you or she gets tired of the waiting and the run-around you fuck on the couch. It's hard and rough and every time she moves its like you wasted all that drink because it's so intense; you aren't numb and it's life changing, it's universe-altering. Anna fucks you like you'll both die tomorrow but the way she threads her fingers with yours hopes that you won't.

Your second date is a glorified fuckfest intermixed with bouts of cartoons and drunken debates. In the morning you make breakfast except it's just cereal but it's just as easy and comfortable as the first day after. And the thing that scores every amount of brownie points is that she never once tries to delve deeper.

You have problems and that's obvious and maybe you should work on them. But she isn't here to fix you, and she isn't going to make an attempt to. But in the night when your demons descend, you know... You know, now, that she will be there with a case of (exceptional) beer - really this is TWICE now she's shown up more than prepared for your taste in alcoholic beverages - and an unquestioning amount of affection.

In the morning, after cereal, you kiss her goodbye at the door because it seems proper, and you can slip your tongue into her mouth for a brief eternity that promises (although there was no shower sex this time) she will see you sooner than expected. And you'll repay this favour she graced you with. Because even unspoken, what transpired the night before is no normal event.

You trusted her with yourself. When you were _ vulnerable. _ Being drunk is nothing new, that is hardly something to share with another person, hardly something to get hype about. But... being drunk, and emotional... that's something you've shared with Kristy. No one else; not Witt, not Linda, though they had both seen you rather disorderly before. Just Kristy.

And Anna.

Your second date is probably awful. It's too soon for you to be as honest as you were. Honest, in that you hardly bothered to hide your despair before her. It's too much too soon and now she'll think you childish for knowing you slightly better; your penchant for cartoons. But when you kiss her goodbye at the door her lips linger against yours and she kisses you back.

She promises what you have. But she also promises that nothing has changed. That this revelation, while game-changing, will not change her opinion of you. It promises that she enjoys living in your lap enough to want to stay there.

It's a promise. And you don't trust those you _ can't _ trust those. But it's like before, like your first date. You allow the press of her mouth. You accept it. You even like it, and maybe you're just drunk - _ again like usual _\- but you think that maybe you'd be kind-of okay with putting your faith in it. In her. In this.

But it's just a kiss goodbye. You wink at her and grin before you let her leave your apartment. And you close the door. You close it and pretend you don't feel pathetic that lean back against the door. You pretend that your heart doesn't beat hard. You pretend that you don't think, too often, that you could really love her, without trying.

You pretend that the second date was awful, and you start your day pretending that your smile is forced. Because that's normal. And that's what you are. Normal. And happy. And oddly genuine.

* * *

** sometimes you come home sad and get drunk.. and this is what happens. Forgive mistakes, I'll care about them when I'm not drunk.**


	7. Awful

**Sometimes i think my liver must hate me... But i mean, comeon liver, what's life without a challenge? A lie. It's a lie it doesn't exist I've checked. So fuck you liver. And also thank you. Like seriously, thanks man... lady... liver. You've kept me not-dead-yet for many years.**

* * *

On the coffee table, your phone starts to buzz. Again. It'd been doing that for a while. Like days. But Kristy only knew of the times it's done so in the last hour and a half. Which still amounts to a right lot-o-fucking-times. But, just like every time before, you ignore it. You know exactly who it is.

Cuz you're smart, and you planned ahead. The ring tone for her is the cash-for-gold song from that one South Park episode. It makes Kristy crack up so she questions it - and you - less. But this is the fourth time. And even as she chuckles and takes her eyes off the screen, giving you a chance to land a few kicks to her character, you can feel her eyes burning into your face.

Like the cellphone that is quieting, you ignore her. But she's got this awful habit of being an annoying bag of ass. She says,

"You gonna answer that?"

"Answer what? Stopped ringing didn't it?" You also set that ring tone for texts from her as well. So it's fair to assume she's going to send one of those. Or that she already has. Yes you did find a way for the full song to play every single time.

This amusement is for you as well. Because guilt is strange and feels like a layer of grime and gross is settling on your skin. You aren't very intimate with this emotion. It's rather unpleasant. But, alas, mother sure didn't raise a quitter.

"Give it ten minutes," she quips and it sets your teeth on edge.

"Shut the fuck up and pay attention to the game!" You snarl angrily smashing your fingers against the buttons randomly. She laughs,

"Don't need to; I don't suck at this," Adding insult to injury she punches your character once more and you die. You feel like you could scream, but instead you just sit back with a sigh. Your phone starts grunting rhythmically. You're next sigh is something of a groaning scream. It's a frustrated sound.

"Go. AWAY!" You pick up your phone and open the lock screen, stopping the song. Kristy is still staring so you'll keep ignoring her. You don't look at the texts or amount of missed calls. Well that's not entirely true... You open the newest text.

** So did I do something wrong or is this just you being a bitch**

You will always respect a person who is forthright. She doesn't shy from calling you out and she shouldn't because you ARE being twelve types of bitch. Everything about her is wonderful and being with her makes you feel wonderful it feels like. Like you can breathe easy, but you never knew before that you were suffocating.

And now that you're aware of it it's unbearable and it freaks you the fuck out like how is this possible how is this awful THING fucking possible? How did someone walk into your life and you let them just, just blindly let them do so? How is it possible that someone can make you need them? It isn't it can't be it's not right it's-

"You're being rude." This is punctuated with the pained screams of your character as a string of combos launches her across the arena and back.

"I don't even know how to play, how is this rude?"

"And it's really starting to piss me off," she growls, the screen paused. She throws her controller down on the water-stained coffee table, you bother to look at her and she's glaring heatedly. You tell her,

"You'll break your controller that way," and her eyes narrow into angry slits. When you were very young you had a cat; the look Kristy is giving you reminds you of when that fat, mean old tabby would face off with any other cat that crossed into the yard.

"Three days ago you couldn't shut up about her-"

"Three years ago you swore you were gayer than Christmas." And now she was dating a tall chocolate man with a brilliant smile and a laugh like a moose.

"And suddenly you won't even fucking answer a TEXT," the tone of voice she's taking on is starting to lean towards the beginnings of a long-winded rant. "What's WRONG with you? I know you're a bitch, you'll be the first to admit it," This is true. "But _ this!? _I never knew you to be such a coward."

"There's no shame in a tactical retreat," Your insides feel hot and tight. Because even if she's pissing you off, everything she says is true. Coward, coward, fucking COWARD. She makes a sound that must be the love child of a growl, grunt, and scream. She picks her controller back up and presses the start button.

For the next eight rounds she pummels you into the ground with equal amounts ferocity and grace. And a dash of hard, cold silence. You're good at games though, the kind with people not controllers, so you play your own silence back, hoping it's louder than hers. You almost win the last round, but when she beats you down with combos and one VERY well placed Kamehameha she finally sits back with a sigh as the character menu comes up.

"I love you, ya know. You don't always deserve it, sometimes I question why I do," her look yells, _ ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU'RE ACTING LIKE A STUPID ASS. _"But I love you. And as much as I wasn't certain about this mysterious secret spy (you both smile weakly), I think she's good for you."

"And what's made you so certain?" You wanted to ask, _Why do you think she's good for me?_ but you knew instinctively that it would come out desperate. It tastes of desperation now as it settles and dissolves on your tongue. Like a bitter medicine. Just makes you feel sicker.

"Because you look like you're seconds away from sobbing uncontrollably," For some odd reason breathing is incredibly difficult. "And you have since you got here."

"So?" You choke it out and it sounds exactly as strangled as it is. Fat, meaty hands, invisible, throttle your throat. Breathing is so hard. So fucking (inappropriately timed dick joke) hard.

"And you're sober."

"What is that supposed to mean? I-I choose to do something GOOD for myself for once in my life and it's such a vile thing?! You don't know anything, not a God damn thing!" But that's a lie and it's one of those few times when you are no good at hiding that fact. She looks at you with an expression just shy of a harsh judgement.

Trying so hard to be your friend, even though you don't deserve it. God you're awful. Why does that matter to you? It didn't. It shouldn't.

"Why don't you shut the fuck up," It's almost a suggestion. "I don't care what excuses you give. We both know this little temper tantrum of yours is unacceptable. And I'm not going to entertain it any longer. You want me to stop ranting at you like a mother? Stop acting like a FUCKING child. And while you're at it, go the fuck home. I'll always be here for you, but you only feel comfortable with emotions in your own bed." God you're awful.

"I'm sorry," you say, and what that pertains to is what you said earlier. Kristy isn't stupid, and she isn't a stranger. She knows plenty, especially about you, and you blew up at her for it. Coward. Fucking coward. Her eyes widen. And you realize in some distant part of your brain that this may just be the first time you've ever apologized for doing her wrong. And meant it.

There must be something wrong with you. It terrifies you. You stand up and the words slip from your lips, "I'm sorry." and "I'm so sorry." rushing faster and faster and you move for the door and when you fumble it open bolt for your car in the parking lot.

You can't breath you can't you can't you can't. You almost break your key off in the door so great is your need to be in the safety of your own car. You fall into it and slam the door once you make it into the vehicle. Sitting in the driver's seat, you lean your head against the wheel and that's when you start to sob for reasons you don't understand.

Those great heaving ones that are sure to leave your eyes red and puffy and your face tear stained and splotchy. Ugly cries. Horrible awful cries because that is what you are and what's wrong with you?

_ What am I doing what am I even doing?_

Your body shudders and convulses and aches as you wallow in your car. You wish you could puke so maybe you wouldn't feel so sick. And you curse yourself for running when you should have stayed strong. Not just to Anna, to Kristy. You could use so much hug right now. So very much. But, either you're lucky or just one tough cookie, in a good fifteen minutes you can actually wipe at your eyes without more rivers of tears pouring forth to replace them.

"Okay," you say to yourself, and your voice is broken and raw from your howls of unexplainable grief. "Okay. It's okay, breathe." You haven't had to do this since you were fourteen. Your laugh, somehow, sounds more broken than your speech. A sob or two slips in. "Forgot what helplessness felt like." Resignation settles over you as you finally sit back, leaning your heavy head against the headrest.

You fucked up. And now. Now you have to be an adult and fix it. But first... You open your middle console and pull out the flask you have stashed in there, screwing the top off and pressing the cold metal to your mouth you tip it back for a few healthy gulps of liquid courage. Because Kristy was right. She tends to be when it deals with you.

Sober you is not appropriate. Sober you is a coward. And you're going to need to be brave to face the task set before you. Answering the rhythmic grunting of the call you're receiving from Anna.

* * *

**I believe next chapter we'll look at Anna's point of view. I once had a picnic attack while driving. Auto correct made that sound funny so I'm not changing it. Forgive my mistakes please.**


	8. Special

**Anyway, I'm in a weird mood so I'll check this for mistakes later. Stay beautiful!**

* * *

So many words bubble up to your lips, demanding exit. Screaming and cursing and and - but you aren't this person. You are this person, but you aren't to her. You've been remarkably good. Almost unselfish. Your companions would mock you if they knew, but frustration drives you to show quite the opposite at work. So you're safe. For now.

But she might not be. So you swallow your fury and spit out,

"Are you alright?" And she laughs but it isn't happy or amused or even bitter and sarcastic. It sounds manic. Just shy of hysterical. An odd emotion grips you. And something inside of you aches. Softer, "Where are you?"

"_Umm_," she sniffles and you realize her voice is strained not because she's going to be hysterical. But that she was. Or _ is. _ And you recognize that emotion as fear. "_In my car_."

"Are you driving!?"

"_No_." You almost choke on the breath you let out. Gasping for air. Relief shouldn't taste so bitter.

"I'm coming to get you." She sighs. Long. Low. At the end she breathes out,

"_Why?_" And it isn't rude and biting. She sounds weary and honestly curious.

"Because-" because. You. You should? It's... you missed her. And you're pissed at her. You want to scream at her and tell her in exact language how horrible she is. You want to taste her mouth. (Both mouths). You want to drink with her and cook food with her.

"_You should tell me off, ya know,_" she tells you and she tries to sound matter-of-fact. She tries to sound like this doesn't bother her. "_I'm awful._"

This is the part where you're supposed to tell her she's wrong. That she's so far from awful. Because she is smart and beautiful and not awful. Because she's mean and petty and a cruel heartless bitch.

"Yes," you say. "You are." This time the laughter is very bitter. "And I don't _ care._"

"_You should,_" she croaks. "_I'm awful to you._"

"Well there ya go! Just don't do that shit anymore." You both laugh. But then, "No, seriously. Don't do that. Ever again."

"_Sorry,_" she mumbles. And she sounds truly contrite. Still,

"You should be. You know, if you're having troubles or flashbacks or whatthefuckever, I get it. This is new and we're new. You can't trust me so you don't trust me. I get it."

"_No. You don't. I don't trust me._"

"But _I _ trust you."

"_HOW? How can you possibly-_"

"Because I don't care!" You snap back, grinding your teeth. "I really don't give a shit. I like you. Your brand of bitch is rare and preferable to the other company I could be keeping. I'd like to be around you. And you'd like to be around me. But that freaks you out."

You sit for half a second to consider saying what you're about to. But it needs to be said,

"I don't know what happened... to you. I don't know who found you and broke you." She sucks in and chokes on a breath, "I'm not going to ask. And I don't want to break you. Elsa, you... deserve better than what you've probably gotten in life. And I'm not promising that I'm better. But I'm no worse than _ you _ are for yourself."

She says, after allowing the silence to stretch,

"_You cut right to the core of me, Baxter._" And even you aren't certain whether the next bout of laughter you both share is bitter or hesitant or any emotion that just shouldn't go with a laugh. But it's a laugh. "_Can you come pick me up? I know that's really shitty of me... after, these past days..._"

"It is, but you know what else is shitty?" You wait long enough for a low, _what?_ before continuing, "Steven Universe episodes have been coming out and you haven't called me over to watch them." She goes quiet and for whatever reason you would swear you can _feel_ her uncertainty. Or disbelief. Like maybe she hadn't expected you to accept (without saying yes), and maybe she REALLY hadn't expected you to want to hang out with her. You are supposed to be angry at her. You still have a little bit of a right to be yelling and cursing her.

_What's wrong with you?_ You could say.

_What's your fucking damage?_

_I'm a person too!_

Well that last one is questionable, BUT STILL! You have the reason and the right. But the person that you're pretending to be, for her sake, wouldn't do that. They'd shrug it off and bury the remains of the last few days within the dregs of memoryland. They'd act like it'd never happened. So that's what you'll do as well.

"_You... want to come watch Steven Universe with me?_" Definitely disbelief.

"Correction- we will be watching Steven Universe together, mostly because you ruined the whole series for me-" she giggles, the little twat. "And because it's cool."

"_Does this mean you think I'M cool?_"

"No."

"_Awwww._"

"I think you're very hot-"

"_YEEEEAH!_" This time, holiest of holies, this time when you both laugh it's actually pretty close to natural. Like, a normal person could have heard you laughing and NOT get concerned or frightened.

"And as it turns out, I generally tend to prefer watching not-so-children's cartoons with very hot women."

"_Aww, I could almost feel special,_" she coos into the phone and you smile. "_My mommy thinks I'm special_." She pauses for a moment, and then, "_I'm just kidding, no she doesn't._"

"Wow, harsh, man."

"_That's WHOA-man to you_."

"Where are you?" you chuckle into your receiver as you fetch your keys from the little ceramic bowl that counts as their home. It's so you don't lose them. You would NEVER hear the end of it if you lost your keys and had to get a whole new set; you decided to never play around with that chance. Unfortunately, Elsa IS a little twat, so she answers you the same she had before, but with less upset confusion and more bitchy regal-ness.

"_Um, in my car._" She doesn't have to say, _Duh_, for you to know that it's implied.

"Yeah, no shit, right?" you bark back, rolling your eyes because maybe you've already been around her too much and you aren't angry because you DO understand why she did what she did. "Where is your car at?"

"_Kristy's apartment complex._"

Brows furrowing, you wonder, "Uhh, so aren't you with Kristy? Why can't you ask her to drive you?"

"_Well... I WAS with Kristy but then..._"

"You got high?"

"_Eh, somethin' like that._" You won't press for details. Not right now not quite yet. First and foremost you'd really love to make sure she makes it home safely. Then you really would like to watch Steven Universe with her. The you you're pretending to be may be carefree and laidback and childish but the you that you actually are is intrigued with the show. Anime. Whatever. And you'd be a filthy liar if you were to say that cuddling up close to her body while sprawled out on her couch is NOT a factor in why you appreciate the show.

"Alright, well I'll be there soon-"

"_Don't you need the address...?_"

No.

"Hahah, yes, yes I do." You aren't supposed to know it. It would be 'creepy' if you knew it. You know a lot of things. Comes with the job. The Job. The one you should tell her about if you want her to trust you. But you don't say anything and instead wait for her to ramble off the address. And when she finishes you start to say once more, "Alrighty! I'll be there soon. Don't go nowhere."

She laughs and promises that she won't. And you can hear it in her voice how warm and big and dopey her smile must be right now. Relief is an intoxicating thing. You would know. She'd actually answered. And whether or not anyone ever told her she was special, she is. To you.


	9. Make-up

Being inside of Elsa is like coming home. Her mouth tastes like lies; simultaneously it is sweet and bitter. Her body is soft and smooth and if you look really close you even notice a few light scars. But she's prefect, absolutely perfect. She's on top of you riding you like it was what she was born for and you stop her with a strong hand on her waist.

She's not drunk but her face is flushed and her eyes are hazy and she whines and whimpers and shifts restlessly on your lap. You lean forward to taste the sweat on her skin and press affectionate kisses against her chest. And so maybe your teeth flash every few times.

"Fuck me," she begs she pleads."Fuck me!" And she tugs on your hair until your scalp burns but you draw back and tell her fiercely,

"No." Because being inside of her has always been like this and you want to savor it you want to memorize every gasp and twitch and tremble of her lips and hips and the salt of her skin. You don't, you _can't_ fuck her right now. You have to adore her worship her remind her why you worked so hard for her attention. Remind her that it doesn't matter.

Whatever IT is for her, it's stupid and irrelevant and it doesn't matter and it can't chase you off you won't let it you can't you-

"Fuck!" her nails dig into your back and they either have or will break the skin but the sting of it makes _ you _ tremble but with Elsa breathing and moaning and whispering heated praise into your ear it's entirely possible this is thanks to that. Elsa's usually quiet. When she has an orgasm it's heralded by a short, soft gap.

But she lets out a groan you feel deep deep inside you and it's long and low and sex has many sounds but that is the epitome of it. You pull her tight to you and you cum. _ Hard. _ And you nuzzle your face into the crook of her neck to muffle your own pleasure but that doesn't help and you feel her shudder and then she's pushing you back.

Until you're laying flat and she starts to move. Gasping, "Again?!" And she leans down to taste your mouth and you wonder if she'd missed it like you had hers. She says,

"_God, _ yes!" And in a feat of great strength despite the numbing bliss buzzing through your body making your limbs weak, you flip the tangle of your bodies over and grin down at her.

"Good."

* * *

"So," she lies next to you and her voice is hoarse, intermixed with soft pants. Still trying to catch her breath, "I could use a cigarette." And you try, you really try not to laugh but you really can't help it. It breaks free from your lips and then swells into raucous laughter that makes your stomach hurt.

"Shall I fetch my- excuse me, _ your _ jacket?" You turn on your side and prop your head up in one hand. Her eyes light up and she grins.

"Oh yes please do," and she says it with an almost childlike excitement. So she adds, "Peasant." And you both crack up and you end up curled close together just giggling and you're reluctant to leave. She's reluctant to let you go. But the hand she probably hadn't noticed she was clutching tightly is untangled from her own and she turns over, waving a hand up in the air to let you know you are dismissed.

You surprise her by bringing an ashtray and a bowl of grapes. Because since you'd been here last she'd actually picked up some food. Good for her. Her face lights up and you quietly admire it as you slide back into the little world you and she had created in her bed. You smile back but make sure to tame it.

Knowing it's your warmth she fears, even as fluffy as she's acting now. But that's ok.

"Thank science," you declare as you slip _ her_ jacket off your shoulders and offer it to her. She reaches into the pockets for the cigarettes and lighter you'd found on the kitchen counter as you adjust the bowl of grapes and the ashtray on a pillow so they won't tip into the bed. When she gets a cigarette in her mouth she casts a curious glance your way.

But you just shake your head and look at her, glowing and content and one of those girls smoking a cigarette after a good fuck. You could almost laugh but this moment feels precious and fragile so you only smile and pop a grape in your mouth.

Yeah. This is ok.

And then,

"My dad died when I was young. Eight. Mummy dearest spiraled, but not before she sunk her claws deep in me to drag me with her."

On a whim you reach for the discarded pack of cigarettes to steal one for yourself and light it up.

"I'm not actually a bouncer."

She hums and smiles. But takes a draw on her cigarette and continues,

"She got really deep in the drink... it was... _ awful._ This beautiful, wonderful, brilliant woman I had loved. She turned into a monster. A-a ghoul. More than a ghost of herself but less than a shell. A mockery."

You close your eyes and absorb her words. Images flash on the back of your lids and sear themselves into your brain. A small blonde shivering in a corner, a beastly shadow with claws and fangs that gleam and drip with drool. It's incorrect. Nonetheless you realize the taste in your mouth and the tightness in your chest had nothing to do with the cigarette you're sucking at desperately.

But you say,

"I speak several languages." And she turns over with a snort. Lying on her side, she sets her cigarette in the ashtray and fixes you with a stare that's almost soft but the arch of her brow is sharp. Like the set of her mouth. A smile that's all and only teeth.

"You know it's not a competition or anything... But. Like. Your trivial info is kinda bull shit." It's all light tones. It could almost be sweet. Her venom is subtle. "I'm not sure if you're doing it on purpose -I mean you _ are_, but like... what?"

"That's..." You sigh and search for words. Two days ago you'd decided you kinda really liked her face a lot. Staring at it. Her. Two days ago you'd accepted you'd have to divulge a few truths. Even if that was pretty much the second half of your job. NOT divulging secrets, that is. Two days ago you'd decided, to just say, "Fuck it."

And her smile softens in a subtle way that means it's harmless again. She's about to speak so you cut in quickly,

"I'm not actually a bouncer. I'm something closer to a body guard... And collector. Gatherer. Scout. A few things actually, but mostly the body guard-ish thing."

"...yeeeah, I'm going to need you to go ahead and not be so cryptic."

"Listen, Lumbergh," you chuckle. "This really isn't the time for a conversation about my messes and I KNOW-"

"Oh, do you know?"

"I do know, I know that isn't a good enough answer but it HAS to be for now. Trust me." You beg her and she is stony faced. But her eyes betray her. You smile.

"Fine!" She huffs, but then leans over and snatches your cigarette. "This is mine."

"Is this my punishment?"

"Only because you'd like a spanking too much," she sneers at you, crushing out your(_HER_) cigarette in the ashtray. And you think it's a wonder she keeps them around when she never seems to finish one. But she moves the ashtray away, setting it on the bedside table. She turns back around and sets her eyes on the grapes.

"Touché," you nod. She sets her eyes on you then and you stare blankly back at her. "Yes?"

"Well, go on." She says.

"Go on?"

"Feed me, of course!" She gestures grandly to the bowl of grapes. You chuckle. It's equal parts amusement and disbelief. But with another nod you accept, moving closer and grabbing the bowl with one hand to feed her the grapes with the other. And in between bouts of nibbling and sucking at your fingertips - and occasionally eating a grape from them - she manages to ask you the question, "So when will you tell me?"

"I don't know." You're remarkably steady for being so awfully and thoroughly distracted. One of her hands is splayed over your abdomen, nails lightly tracing random patterns into the skin there.

"And... when will 'I don't know' be?"

"Soon," you choke out.

"Good!" She chirps. "Now enough of the food play, I want more make-up sex!"

"We're dating?"

"Oh my yes," she pulls out that southern belle accent she'd used the first time you and she met. "I WILL be your lady; I'm so charmed that you finally asked!" The press of her mouth against yours is demanding and rough and satisfying as she pushes back down on the mattress again. She draws back to glare and growl at you, "Now shut up and fuck me."

"Yes ma'am." You spit it out, and you might have chuckled had she not settled herself snugly down on your lap. This, whatever you have - _relationship, it's officially one of those, now_ \- isn't perfect. Far from it in fact. But you decide that you're definitely ok with it anyway.

* * *

** Got drunk on a back porch listening to beach music. Put me in a lighthearted mood. So I wrote this. Mkay bye**


	10. Okay

** Wrote this in an hour before bed because I took a nap and I've gotta do big girl shit in the morning. Let the work crew and boss man know I'll have a funeral to attend like this week or some shit... anyway. Sleep tight y'all. **

**Review or don't. Stay lovely, have a lovely day, or go find some love in something. Just love. It doesn't always(often) solve (any)everything... But sometimes it makes things bearable.**

* * *

You hate panic. More than anything else you hate, you hate mindless, baseless panic. You hate irrational fears and girlish tendencies to give in to them. There's very little you hate more than that, those particular weaknesses. So the fact that nightmares wake you in the night, bolting you out of your bed with sweat running down your brow and a scream tickling your tongue is something next to unacceptable.

And yet you are powerless to shake the sobs, tears and snot that starts up when your racing heart calms even just so. You hate fear. You hate irrational fear. You hate overly emotional outbursts. You hate that you are susceptible to them, just like everyone else. You try so hard to ignore your emotions.

That's what you've done since you were twelve years old. It's like, the only thing you know how to do easily. Because lies are like breathing but these days you find yourself to have trouble doing that properly. Breathing, that is. Not lying. God help you the day you have trouble lying.

And so you find yourself in a bit of a pickle, and then you're rolling over in bed, hands scrabbling across your nightstand, searching blindly frantically for your cellular device. And when you find it your fingers fumble and stumble and stutter out random numbers that are both use and meaningless until, finally, and at last you manage to make something of it.

You hit Send and the line starts to ring. You aren't religious. The kind of life you've led and the things you've seen, done, and had done to you have dried up the well of faith that may have possibly once existed within you. But you find that you can't help but to pray she picks up.

The snark that bites into your eardrums as soon as she does is so relieving you almost start crying again. But you resist the urge. In your head there's an image of yourself in a military uniform, disciplining your tear ducts. Demanding compliance and giving orders. A combination of what Anna says and that image curls your mouth into an easy smile. The panic still lurking and waiting to boil and bubble over is tamed so that when you laugh it sounds pleasantly sultry instead of obviously manic.

You play and you giggle and you change the subject away from yourself. And she tells you she's working. Which is a lie. Or maybe not, but you seriously doubt she's a Mack and what other jobs run such hours? She just doesn't seem the type, so her claims sound far fetched. Unless she was getting her dick wet, which, like, no judge. Gotta get your kicks somewhere and you will admit that as of late you've been an unfortunately annoying roller coaster ride of emotion.

But it's whatever. And Anna, the sweet fucking cherub that she is, manages to take a bit of invisible mud out of your immediate atmosphere. Makes breathing manageable until she brings the conversation back around to you and you get pissed. Sometimes you really can't decide if you want to kiss her or hug her or just fucking hit her.

Sadly - or not-so-sadly - you usually end up just fucking her. And in this instance, when she shows up at your door less than forty five minutes later, you do as such. You think of it as sexual healing. You probably have God awful PTSD, if the nightmares are anything to go by.

And your inability to sleep due to the nightmares...

And your dependence on alcohol...

And also your inability to, generally, carry out healthy relationships.

But when you're with her, and she's touching you and holding you, sweating and grunting against you... when she's pressing herself close and pulling you closer, sucking you in with her warmth and the feel of her inside of you... when you're with her you forget for a while what it's like to not just grit your teeth and bear it. You forget to feel like a soldier in the trenches, surrounded by enemies and with no way out.

You forget to feel disgust.

You forget that anguish and innocence that still rots away inside you.

You forget how angry and sad and scared your nightmares make you.

You forget to drink them away, because for once something soothes better than liquid fire sliding down your throat. She's hot. She makes you feel hot. Like you wear this mask, and it's your face your gorgeous fucking face, but it's still fake. And she burns that away. She burns it all away and what's left is this raw exposed lump of flesh. But she still makes that, makes you feel as beautiful as you pretend to be.

As beautiful as your mask. Beautifuller. Which, in all honesty, is a stupid choice of word. But you would swear she's used it before. Or that she should. And that makes it excellent. She makes you strange. She makes you...

Happy.

It's a realization that chokes you. It hits you after that last, God damn mind blowing orgasm. It hits you and you're curled against her side and you want to run and jump and scream. But instead you cry. Because. Because that's all you've ever wanted wasn't it? God, you sad pathetic little wretch.

Happiness is all you've wanted.

Since you were a little girl and daddy died. Since it was sucked out of your life so suddenly and you've never been able to find it since or hence out whatthefuckever. You've just wanted this. And you finally have it.

God, but fucking... You finally _fucking_ have it.

And then she mentions the nightmares. It's like the bottom drops out from under you. The rug ripped from beneath your feet. Panic lurking striking choking you telling you to run run fucking RUN before it hits you and you ruin this like you ruin everything you stupid girl you stupid stupid ugly thing you-

"Don't you run from me," she growls into your ear as she pulls you back. And she forces her hand into yours but it isn't an affront. It's an anchor. You huff out a breathe, and hope she can't tell how upset you really are.

"I changed my mind," you tell her and it sounds angry and hisses between your lips almost dripping with venom. Because fear makes you lash out. "I don't want to talk about it anymore." You don't want to talk about it ever again.

_Him_.

You don't want to talk about _Him_.

And then... she's okay with that. Jesus Henry fucking Christ. She's okay with it. That you don't want to talk. And somehow in some way that makes your body and mind kick into overdrive and you almost start to babble then. You almost start to tell her and tell her everything. And she stops you. She stops you and allows you to know that you don't have to. Not now at least.

And when it comes right down to it you know she wouldn't force it out of you anyway. Because she's Anna. She's wearing masks too and playing some part in the complex game of existence, a part you don't yet understand. But you know that, you can trust that she won't... She won't. Do anything. That is, in the sense of hurting you intentionally.

You can't even put it in proper words. But that'll do for now. She promised pancakes. Bacon pancakes. And you think to yourself, as you drift off in her arms breathing against her neck and surrounded by her warmth and the scent of her, you think that tomorrow your going to tell her. And tell her everything.

And you're okay with that.


	11. Bacon

**Because I finally got to double digit chapters, for every chapter I will reveal a secret about this story. What the secret pertains to... well, that changes.**

**Secret number 1: I wrote this story with the intent to make myself drink less by creating a person that drank as much as, if not more than,**** me. **

* * *

"_Where are you?_" You could almost remember her actual name, if you tried really hard it would be right there on the tip of your tongue. But you don't actually give a shit about her or hers. Here, she's simply referred to as Meg. Though you like to call her bitch. Because that's what she is. A raging one.

And not like Elsa. At least Elsa is fun and funny! Oh no, no. Meg is an awful, person hating piece of pompous filth. She may know a bit more about the complexities of the genome than you, but by no means does that give her any rights to question you or your whereabouts. She thinks, because she's the head researcher, that this gives her both the power and right to dare calling you this early in the morning hours.

You don't even understand yourself how you managed to untangle from Elsa to answer this call you had assumed would be important. Well you do understand how you did it, but you don't understand why. All you really know is that you should look at your caller ID sometimes. Like occasionally maybe.

"Where I am is exactly where I need to be," you tell her as you very quietly make your way out of the still-dark bedroom. And she curses in your native tongue and speaking English so long makes it sound like a harsh music. Angry notes that buzz like a swarm of bees and roar like ocean waves in a storm. A sound you've missed. Unfortunately, "That is forbidden. And yet still you speak it."

"_Do something._"

"Oooh," it's odd to fill laughter, specifically chuckling, with malice and ill intent. But you do it, stuff it until you're practically gargling growls. "Gladly. I'm so overjoyed you signed up for our experimental program on hybridization. Now should I put you down as a receiving participant or...?"

"_Don't you dare-_"

"Don't you EVER question me again, is that understood? I am in charge of this operation, not you, not any of your crack team. _ ME._ And guess what? I come and go as I please. And still manage to do my fucking job. So either tell me the subjects I delivered are defective and I need to deal with the last Scout or tell me an experiment was successful."

There's a long pause. You can hear the grind of her teeth as she fights to keep her cool. Meg likes to try to play bigger fiddle to you. But the devil went down to Georgia twice and still got Jack shit, there's no way in hell you're going to allow her to out-maneuver you. Although, some part of you wants to thank her for waking you.

You can start on bacon pancakes.

"_A successful hybrid is currently in incubation._"

"That's good to hear. And the subjects?"

"_All in excellent health. Relatively speaking. One is dying._"

"That's unfortunate, can it be used to our advantage?"

"_Experimentation already underway. Shall I contact you if the splice expires it prematurely?_"

"That won't be necessary, just compile a report and I'll look over everything later."

"_Yes ma'am._"

"Oh and one more thing... you keep spreading rumors about what I'm doing in my free time and you'll find yourself volunteered for every single program that exists under this vast little project you like to think of as yours. Is that clear?"

"_... yes. Ma'am._"

The mark of a bad leader must be smiling at the discomfort of those that work beneath you. But most bad leaders had never had to deal with Meg. So.

"Good. I might see you when I drop by the facility later. Make sure I don't." You barely wait for the last affirmative before ending the call. And then, just because, you swear in your native tongue. Somehow it feels better to speak as such. You haven't done so in very long, but Meg is astronomically irritating.

You set your phone down on the kitchen counter, almost stomping over to one of the chairs that keeps the kitchen table company. You pull it out and plop yourself down into the chair, cradling your head in your hands. With a few deep breaths and some thoughts centering around Elsa and bacon - in no particular order - you manage to calm.

Slightly.

Agitation still grits your teeth and furrows your brow but... bacon... And Elsa... And then a deliciously unsafe food idea enters your brain. And you hope that Elsa will forgive you if breakfast is a little bit lacking in the pancake department, and you think she just might have to. Your new idea is overloaded with bacon, saving grace.

She won't mind. You'll even pick up the materials if you have to which won't be a problem... bitches do love bacon. 'Cept for the ones with pork allergies. But Elsa isn't so unlucky, so... yeah this should work out fine.

Three and a half hours.

It takes two and a half for your special surprise to bake, but you'd had to go to the store for cheese and potatoes. And three and a half hours later Elsa comes stumbling out of the bedroom, a yawn cracking her jaw open. You know only because breakfast is cooling and while you waited you'd been watching Steven Universe in the living room.

You'll completely catch up soon, to the ever lovely Elsa. This you inform her as she zombie walks her way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Which you had, quite luckily, made only ten minutes ago. She had new coffee beans, same brand as the last one, but this named Jamaican Me Crazy.

"_Holy_..." the reverence in her tone was oddly pleasing to the ears. You were enjoying it, at least. "Anna dear, could you come in here?"

"I could if I really wanted to; would you clean it up?"

"I'd lick it up, now get in here." Grinning something close to manic you make your way into the kitchen, joining Elsa next to the coffee pot. You settle to a stop with your arms around her waist and your chin on her shoulder. Staring at your Bacon Pie. It might actually be called a tart, but that denotes sweetness in your mind.

So pie works better.

"What the fuck is that thing?"

"Diabetes on a plate."

"Is it...is it for me?"

"Oh yes."

"Oh my fuck. Are you serious?"

"As that heart attack it's going to give you."

"Shit. I... I think I love you right now."

"Don't worry my dear, I think you love me too." she slaps the back of your hand but it's harmless and lacking.

"Shut up and feed me." From here you can hear your phone buzzing on the sofa. And you know, without having to check, that an experiment failed. Probably the hybrid. For whatever reason they can never manage to stabilize...

Work can wait. You're first priority is feeding Elsa. Pay off being you get to watch and listen to the rapturous way she moans and the way her eyes roll back into her head. She complains she'll get fat as she willingly dives in for more. And you tell her that's a good thing. There will be more of your Glorious Queen to worship.


	12. Linda

**American Horror Story Hotel is coming... And my body... it's... so fucking ready... And yes my original intent for this story WAS successful...**

**Secret number two: by chapter three or four, the idea of where I wanted this story to go finally formed. Shortly after that, I discovered Steven Universe HOWEVER it's mention in the story IS NOT due to my interest with the show. **

* * *

For whatever reason, you think of your mother a lot lately. The 'whatever reason' might be due to the fact that soon it'll be about... what, exactly a decade since you've seen her? Something like that. Anyway, yeah, that... _ wonderful_ anniversary is drawing nearer and you... well you'll be damned but you keep thinking of her.

And thank every deity out there, but when you think of her... the only images and phantom sensations that play through your mind and body happen to be the happy ones.

You remember being seven. And... And you remember the scent of her as a business woman. You remember. It's this perfect mix of Light Blue and makeup. Powder and citrus and flowers. She was leaving for work and you leaned up, arms opened for a hug. And that was the smell when you kissed her powdered cheek.

You remember the way her eyes would sparkle with glee and mischief. Her hair shone a caramel color in that light your memories insist played upon it. A darker blonde that was brought out only with highlights. But you can see the shine of her healthy hair and radiant smile and her eyes like little stars to match all that shine.

You remember how she used to brush your hair. You'd always tell her that you'd forgotten how to brush your hair, just so you could have her do it. And she'd look at you with eyes that let you know she was no fool. She knew you were lying. But she brushed your hair anyway because you needed any excuse you could for her to carefully, meticulously run that pink brush through your thick locks. And she did every time.

You remember only these happy things and yet it is only sadness that plagues you. A melancholy sort of emotion that chokes you thoroughly and thoughtlessly and frequently in the week leading up to the great anniversary of awful. You find yourself harsher on your managers beneath you and the little underlings beneath them.

You don't mean to be an unbearable bitch it just happens that way. But, sweet little gay men that they are, they totally are chill about it all. Baloo and Bagheera are two of the most wonderful men that have ever been a part of your life. Second and third only to your late father. Because while he was alive he was the greatest man in your life

And that's how father's should be and if it's anything otherwise they aren't doing it right.

But, those two... they came to you at separate times, Baloo first and a week later Bagheera. And they claimed to be roommates and you'd believed them and three whole weeks passed before you realized otherwise. You had, _have, _a strict no-dating policy for/between your co-workers/employees.

And seeing them interacting it was so obvious you felt stupid your gay senses hadn't been tingling the whole time. And then you'd taken them aside and informed them both very calmly that while they would not be fired, and you would not even be cutting hours for the infraction in the rules, if they ever dared to attempt lying to you again you would be merciless to them.

Anyway... They don't deserve you to act as you have this past week. You suppose that makes you lucky that they're both such patient men - when it comes to other people - and can deal with you even like this. But regardless it's ridiculous and if you could control yourself to some degree...

Reasons why you drink number one. It doesn't help that more and more lately you find yourself drinking less and less. You want to go home and drink until you ache you do you really do but you don't anymore. There are... More important things. People... Anna, you're talking about Anna.

She makes you boring, you've decided. Or real. She makes you acknowledge how your insides feel raw and every part of you always throbs with dull aches and pains that are dull only because you've spent so long becoming numb to them. She makes you want to think about those things and consider how they shape you and can hurt other people through you.

And she doesn't even mean to. Which is scary. Have you stated yet how much she terrifies you? There must be an exact number, a science for this really. But there isn't, and there's an old saying about wishes and shit... Or wishes and horses... Or horses and shit...

You should tell her. You were supposed to before, but it course you'd chickened out. Lately, as thoughts of your dear mother have flooded your mind - the mother that was still dear to you, before the monster she is now took over - you consider telling her. Telling her... _ everything. _Every dirty secret underneath the pile of skeletons in your closet. Every flashback and nightmare. Every, every second of anguish and-

You consider alternatives that don't tremble your hands and blur your vision. You consider telling her nothing. You consider asking your friends for advice. But then even they don't really know everything. There's exactly one other person besides yourself that actually does know the whole story.

She's the last alternative. Also, she's your lunch date.

She walks into the restaurant wearing heels tall as a skyscraper. Her hair is curling about her face and head, gleaming a gold that her brown roots will tell you is from a bottle. Her green eyes are bright but slightly sunken in her somewhat gaunt face. She's what you might consider almost beautiful. The remnants of her youth are there but she is not youthful.

She's Linda. Fucking Linda. Crazy in a glass. A dear old friend. A person you hadn't spoken to since before you started talking to Anna. Which is unacceptable. You hadn't seen each other in a while and that was to be expected - Linda was something of a nomad, always on the move - but you hadn't been good about keeping in contact and when she had informed you she was in town today you took the time to be prepared for it.

"Elsa my sweet little baby!" She cries and you stand to hug her tightly. "Little bitch how dare you ignore me!" She hisses into your ear and pinches your bum. You squeak and snort and slap her arm as you draw back from the embrace.

"Linda, it's great to see you too," you drawl and she grins a sort of Cheshire cat grin and nods as she seats herself. You do the same and wave over a waiter. Only after placing your drink orders - and both of you order a ridiculous fucking cocktail, God it's good to slip into old hobbies - do you lean your elbows against the table and your head into your hands to copy the way Linda is now.

"Sooo tell me what's been happening since your silence, little one?" She talks to you like she's your mother. And honestly? She's been the closest thing to such since you were... fifteen? Yeah. So in a few days, that'd make that ten years. You'll be turning twenty five. God help you.

"Hmm, things and stuff, stuff and things. You know, the usual," you wave your hands in some odd vague gesture. She doesn't bother glaring, just blinks slowly and her brows creep upwards. Laughing, you clarify, "I've a love interest."

"Oh?"

"Yes," and your smile must be especially sickening because Linda looks amused and also confused. And you don't tend to ever be overly sickening in relationships... you don't tend to start serious relationships either, but... "She's lovely."

"This means I'm allowed to call you a useless brooding lesbian," Linda smiles, thanking the waiter politely as he returns with the drink orders and sets them down.

"I've dated women before..."

"And men, and women in suits, and men in dresses," she lists off on her fingers. "My, you've sampled the many flavours of life!... and yet you've never smiled that like for a single one." You say nothing, trying to hide your smile behind the sip of your drink. She grins knowingly at you. "Yeah that smile, that one right there! The one you can't hide from me." You throw your head back and bark out a laugh that she can't resist joining in on.

"God I've missed you, what brought you in town today?"

"Oh you know, money and favors," she waves her hands in a vague gesture much like you had but you nod, because you do know. When you left your home all those years ago, it was Linda that took you in. At that time she'd been much closer to beautiful than she is now, but still just as wild and lovable.

She fucking took you in off the street. There's more than just a handful of reasons she's the closest thing to a mother you have.

"Same old same old," she shrugs and you smile and laugh lightly, taking another draw from your drink. Good Lord this drink is good. You don't usually get cocktails but fuck it it's been too long and it's sweeter than sugar. "You still running your auntie's ice cream parlor?"

"You make me sound like I'm six," you intone but she only titters and nods. "Yes, I've added in some new equipment, we even have credit card machines now!"

"Scandal!" She gasps, throwing her hands up. Linda speaks with her hands, you love it.

"Right? We're so hi tech now we could be the birthplace of Skynet."

"Oh I bet! I bet," she pauses to gulp at her drink. You may or may not have picked up bad habits from most of the 'good' influences in your life. "I'm glad. At least _someone_ takes care of my girl."

"Now now, Lin, let's not get spicy. I don't blame her-"

"Yes you do," she glares but it isn't at you. "Just not as much as me. I blame _ him_ more than her but, really, who wouldn't."

"Linda, can we, like, not?"

"Tell me about your girl?" her snarl morphs into a smile so seamlessly it could almost seem natural.

"Ah," it catches you off guard and you fumble for words for just a moment. "Her name is Anna, she's... oddly charming. Annoying. Not all that tall, shorter than me in fact. She's... nice. A stubborn ass and she's got GORGEOUS eyes and she's actually built like really well and she pisses me off so much I want to hit her and she makes me so so-"

"Happy," it must be the alcohol that warms your cheeks.

"So umm, yeah she's. She's nice," you like feeling warm, so you'll just drown yourself in this drink for half a sec.

"You've said that." Linda points out.

"Yes... ah, I kind of... like her... like, a lot. Ish. And... I'm not entirely certain she trusts me completely... but I-I want to... try trusting her, I mean."

"You haven't told her," she sums up and you lock up for a second. You could almost believe in that moment even your heart stops.

"I... haven't told anyone..."

"Oh, honey..."

"I know. I know. I just. Can't. I hate that I still have nightmares, discussing it makes me-"

"Flip out, change subject, or run away, yes I'm aware," You glare, at her. But she just smiles. You hate her sad smiles. "But you want to tell her?"

"Yes!" You don't feel as confident as your immediate answer makes you sound. Or maybe it sounds hasty and falls short of the confidence you can barely pretend you have. Maybe your hands are still shaking and that's shy you've put them in your lap. And MAYBE you should try like, fucking breathing or something. "Yes I... put her through a lot of my emotional episodes and... it's only fair she knows why... Right?"

"Sweety... I can't tell you what to do. You're an adult and you've got to make this decision on your own but, if I may offer my opinion?"

"Duh," you roll your eyes, "Why do you think I wanted to meet you here?" her eyes spark with some sort of delight and she smiles for a brief moment. But she continues, seriously,

"Don't tell her because you feel obligated to, like you owe it to her. Tell her because you want to. Because you genuinely want her to know and think that it will make you and your relationship better and stronger."

It's good to have Linda. It's good to have just one person to trust. _ But maybe..._

"Have I told you that I missed you?" She laughs, shakes her head. "How bout that I love you?"

"No I don't believe so. But you know what says love and misses like nothing else?"

"Hugs and kisses?"

"You buying my lunch," And the both of you laugh, despite she's serious. Of course you will, you'd decided that before this conversation even started. But you surrender and agree, put on a big show like it's a problem for you.

"But only on one condition," you say at last, and she cocks a brow and purses her lips. As in, _what right do you have for conditions?_ But you smile, ever triumphant and tell her, "You must meet Anna."

"You drive a hard bargain, my girl, but... I'll have to agree." You shake hands on it and laugh. And then you flag down a waiter to get your orders. You smile and chat and laugh. And when she orders a second drink... you don't.

Some things do change, so it would seem.

And maybe you can trust more than one person


	13. Honest

***smoking intensifies* please forgive mistakes thx**

**Secret numero tres: Anna's age is relevant exactly to her patience with Elsa**

* * *

Sometimes you really fucking adore Anna. And that's so much easier to say than it used to be. You don't panic as much thinking it to yourself; Hell like, a few days ago you said you loved her and neither of you even freaked out. It's almost like you're two regular adults engaged in a normal relationship.

Even though you're a broken POS with a drinking problem and enough emotional baggage to beat a small country to death with. And she's a mysterious something-or-other with enough lies and secrets to make the American government regret it's choices. You have like an inch of normality in this vast lake of dumb fuckery.

But hey the relationship is doing great!

Now it's time to ruin it.

You told her that tonight you two would be going out to dinner. Specifically that you would be meeting someone out for dinner. Someone important to you so she'd better look amazing or no royal vagine for her tonight. Was it cruel that considering the conversation you'd be having after dinner she wasn't gonna get any anyway?... Or no wait, she'd be the worst trash to try and make moves tonight after all conversations had run their course.

Was it hot in here? It felt hot. And dizzy. Like it didn't feel dizzy but YOU felt dizzy. Panic is a bitch and slaps you right in your whore mouth whenever you're driving, it seems. And you adore Anna, you really do. She groans excitedly and turns up the volume on your car's stereo, saying (squealing),

"DUDE, I love Donny G!" As if she can sense your increasing anxiety. So you swallow that shit, like a big girl, and toss her a grin.

"Oh yeah?"

"Fuck yeah! See he's funny, handsome, he can rap. I mean I'm just saying... I'd fucks with him. And he's the voice of Marshall Lee so he's basically perfect."

"Anna."

"Plus I've heard he's into butt stuff."

"Anna stop."

"Oh don't act like you wouldn't do butt stuff with Donald Glover."

"You're weird," you inform her but she's just smiling. And then you start laughing because, holy shit, she _ really_ just said that to you. She grabs your hand - the one gripping the gear shift like a fucking lifeline - and weaves her fingers between yours, squeezing just lightly. She lifts the joined hands and kisses the back of yours and it's not as though you've been keeping track of the times she's done this... but it's familiar and comforting and your muscles unlock.

You hadn't even realized you were this tense but. God, but Anna's there for you. And it hits you suddenly how few people are there for you. How few you _allow_ to be there for you. The two most important (_cough, only two you lying cunt, cough cough_) are about to meet. And you. You just. Wow, it's crazy how that fact makes it so hard to breathe.

But Anna squeezes your hand again and starts to rap along with the CD playing upon your stereo and while it's unexpected and hilarious... she wasn't lying. She enjoys Childish Gambino quite a lot, you can tell, because she knows EVERY single word. It's kind of amazing... still utterly ridiculous, but also kind of amazing.

It's a Thai place. And if you haven't mentioned your penchant for Thai food yet then you have done this world an injustice because, Jesus Lord, Thai food is love Thai food is life. And Linda had remembered and you're touched. You also remember, as you pull into the parking lot, to inform Anna of this fact. Her taco truck venture was perfect because of SO many reasons, but Thai food is your true bottom bitch.

All other food is sideline hoe. Good-ass sideline hoe, but sideline hoe nonetheless.

And then you're inside. It's nice. Not over the top, tiny proportions big taste kind of nice. But quant and quiet, filled with muted chatter, silverware on porcelain and the smell of a spice whose name escapes you. It's just nice. You allow Anna to keep her grip on your hand as you enter and tug her along behind you when you spot Linda.

You offer her an apologetic smile - because yes, you are late, what of it?! - and a short wave as you come up. She rolls her eyes but the easy smile she shoots back is calm and open. And that's when she must see Anna over your shoulder. She's still smiling but it's strained in a way you have trouble recognizing. Eyes just slightly narrowed.

What's weird is... well, Anna. She. When you glance over your shoulder at her... it's like she's seen a ghost. And you aren't stupid. Well, you can be. Everyone can be, it's pretty much ingrained in the human genome but like. You aren't fucking retarded holy shit.

They know each other.

And when you're all seated and drink orders have been placed, that's where it gets really weird. Anna and Linda introduce themselves and start boring generic smalltalk, but there's an edge to Linda's tone that's. It's. Knowing? Expectant? Like. Ok. It's as if she asks these questions not to know them but to confirm? Like she has an idea of all this and just needs it stated just needs to hear it aloud. And it's questions that you hadn't answered, that's what makes it so strange.

It's so God damn painfully obvious they know each other you feel sick and need to excuse yourself to the restroom to 'freshen up'. Pfft. Whatever that shit's supposed to mean. You take a deep breath and glare into the mirror. Reassuring yourself that yes, you are the fucking queen, and yes, you TOTALLY got this.

Even though you feel quite the opposite. Even though this is weird and wrong. You were supposed to introduce them to each other and lead the conversation. Linda would hound Anna for details about her life to make certain that her baby was being taken care of and you would make weak attempts at getting her to stop while Anna answered seriously and truthfully and got mad respect from Linda. Not to say you'd had this whole night planned out but...

But this is different. You've known Linda quite a while and although the two of you aren't always the best about keeping in touch, you feel like somebody like Anna would have been mentioned. Unless... Unless Anna knew her before you knew her...?

And you'd known her for a decade (and some change), so... UGH, fuck this. Fuck those two and their God damn secrets - _totally gonna ignore the fact that you've got secrets too, hmmm sweets?_ \- and their trying to ruin your well earned Panang curry. Those bitches. No more encouragement needed for you to storm out of the bathroom wearing your usual airs about yourself, head held high and shoulders back.

Everything about you screams, 'No, really now world, please fuck with me, I invite you' and that's the way you like it that's the way it should be. Twin smiles greet you at the table, tense and tight for reasons you know. You seat yourself, prim and proper and meticulous in the way you fold your napkin over your lap. And you look up from beneath your lashes, pinning both of them with a glare.

"We're going to pretend we love each other desperately for the remainder of this dinner. 'Kay?" Sugar sparkles and ponies and unicorns and hot bubbling acid all live peacefully in your tone and especially in your next smile. The two glance at each other, brows raised, then shoot those looks back to you. As if you should care or like, change your mind or something. Louder, with a smidge and a half pinch more venom, you repeat, "'KAY?"

"Of course dear."

"Yes ma'am!" The latter is accompanied by a salute.

The drinks arrive and things are running smoothly. Talk is easier because Linda stopped with the whole 'questions she seemingly knows' and Anna's trying harder to speak more with you. Holding your hand and shit. It's sweet and you reward her with brief kisses when appropriate. And all the while you pretend you don't notice the glares they shoot each other over your shoulder.

* * *

All plans you'd had to have a serious heartfelt discussion about things you still don't like admitting about yourself fly straight out every door, window and air vent in the restaurant.

Nope, oh no that's just no longer an option. Too fucking pissed now. You aren't generally the nicest person, and in fact you'd go as far as calling yourself a selfish, lying, alcoholic bitch. But Jesus Lord as your witness, you've never felt angry enough to punch a baby. Until right... about... _ Now._ It's been a long night for too many stupid fucking reasons to rehash in your brain.

And these bitches... these fucking bags of dick and ass... are fighting over the check.

Holy.

Fucking.

_Shit_.

God forbid you all split it three ways and pay for your own shit. God fucking smite that shit right outta the air before you can convince them. This is a dad thing right? Your daddy issues extend to not having one for more than almost-a-decade and you're an only child so you aren't much of a daddy-tendency expert - but this is what dads do to their sons right? And they're pissing you right the fuck off with this daddy shtick bull shit. You can think only that they deserve each other, and spare both women a snarling sneer and a rather withering glare before you push yourself back from the table as aggressively as physically possible.

You delight in the awful racket the legs of the chair make as they scrape against the floor. Their heads whip around and they fix you with confused looks that seriously make you want to vomit. But, all over them.

"I'll be in the car." You smile at the both, forcing your information out through gritted teeth. Because you made the worst decision tonight by insisting Anna ride with you. And it's a testament to how much you've really grown that you don't leave Anna's dumb ass there to find her own fucking way home. You do, however, give her the silent treatment the whole drive back to your apartment. Although it's very clear already, you will build a fucking window - you are pissed and you don't want your ire to be underestimated.

Usually this is where you would push someone in her position away and demand they retreat from your sight until you can stomach the sight of them once more. But you glare at her until she lifts her (deservedly) guilty face and catches your eyes. You jerk your head in a nonverbal bid to follow, which she does. Wisely keeping her mouth shut all the while.

And because you are officially a twenty five year old adult, you make certain to stomp your way to your apartment like a petulant child. And the door you throw open for Anna is slammed shut behind her. She flinches.

"Elsa," she attempts but you storm over, not hesitating you shove your face in hers, backing her up with calculated shoves and the pure malice in your tone.

"What. The. _ Fuck?_" she swallows. You are thoroughly enjoying that nervous fear making a home in her eyes. "Are you even aware of who the fuck that was?"

"Are you?" She wants to get fucking hit. She's BEGGING for it. You grip fistfulls of your hair and try try try at succeed succeed succeeding to NOT pull those lovely locks of silvery blonde hair from your gorgeous head.

"That," you hiss, slowly loosening your fingers. "Was my _ mother._" She pales and the freckles that decorate both cheeks and the bridge of her nose seem neon against the sudden bone white of her skin.

"No fucking way," she breathes and, you know, she's not wrong, but that pisses you the fuck off even more.

"Oh yeah? Well that woman's practically raised me for the past decade which is more than I can say for my actual mother! So yeah, she might as fucking well be."

"You don't know her like I do-"

"YEAH APPARENTLY NOT!" You throw your hands up and make the most guttural, disgruntled noise you can summon from the depths of your being and stalk off to the kitchen. She follows after. You go to the fridge and seeing as how you haven't been drinking nearly as much, it's almost overflowing with various foods and an impressive assortment of alcohol. You've discovered a new company lately that you're rather fond of. They've got some sours that are absolutely mouthwatering.

You pull out a Bretta Berry and twist the top off... it's not a twist top, this is just how fucking bad ass you are. You take a healthy swallow (or, you know, like, four of them) and slam it down on your counter and only then do you turn to face Anna. She looks... stubborn. Not scared like she should be or regretful for pursuing your fury as she had so unintentionally continued to do. And if you could hate her for her infernal stubbornness you would.

"Would you like to hear a story?" You say suddenly. And you know it's quite sudden because Anna jumps just slightly, flinching only a pinch. You're allowed to change your mind again, damn it. She nods her head slowly, uncertain. So you begin once more, as calmly and quietly as you just managed to shock her with. "I've told you briefly about my father's death and my mother's spiral. But I've never told you about what pulled my mother from the depths of despair."

"You never mentioned that she _had_ been pulled out of her despair."

"Yeah, I don't... I don't really think of it as very much of a recovery, considering what followed..." your hands are shaking. You need to take a slow, deep breath, and so you do but it doesn't take the tremble from them. So next you bring the Bretta Berry to your mouth, glass clicking only lightly against your teeth as you tip it back. You set it on the counter lightly this time. Taking another deep breath, "She met a man when I was ten. Married him when I was eleven. I never liked him. Not once. The first time my mother brought him over to introduce him to me, the smile on his face made my _skin crawl._" A shiver drips itself down your spine, not unlike melted ice.

Anna is standing next to you and you're grateful for the presence. She offers that the two of you might take this to the couch. You agree. And you find yourself much in a state similar to the second date. Between her legs, leaning your back against her chest, cradling a beer for strength. You take a swig. She wraps arms around your waist and leans forward to press a kiss to your cheek. Some very tiny part of you wants to stop this conversation and curl up like this forever. Fuck feelings fuck honesty. Comfort is God, you wish to worship.

You ignore that wish. You're in too deep. Just finish and. And then you never have to talk about it again. Swallow that lump in your throat like a girl, barrel forward like a bull.

"The first time he touched me was the second time I ever met him."

* * *

** HILO. How ye be? How did everyone like American Horror Story Hotel? Gonna be honest, I FUCKING LOVED IT! It was so ridiculous and I totally predicted that Johnny boy was a bad mamajamma. Lady Gaga was perfect and sexy and amazing and our Lord and savior! Also the hotline bling (or as I like to think of it SSJ Carter's Special Beam) moment was HILARIOUS. But uhh, Liz Taylor with Rufio made me cry. Also Liz Taylor's son being the sweetest most accepting son also made me cry.**

**Anyway. So I'm ready for your judgement, please feed it to me. Have a fine day!**


	14. Love

**Secret number FOURRRRRRRRRRRR: Anna's definitely working with some people that experiment on others, as anyone who read the original chapter ten - which was up for only a day I believe before I got girlish and self conscious and took it the fuck down, and by the way NO there was no second copy and the first is long gone - can attest to, or at least assume from her conversation with Meg in whatever chapter it was.**

**So every time The Incredibles comes on... all I can think... every single time... is that God damn, the sex Helen and Bob have must be fucking nuts. Like house destroying.**

* * *

You sit and listen as Elsa tells the tale of the integral parts of her puberty to you. You sit with her wrapped up in your arms and try as hard as you can to not squeeze her until her ribs snap under the pressure. That's possible for you, this body isn't just for show. You sit while she trembles and shakes and starts to get snotty, red-eyed, splotchy cheeked, crying as she barrels forward on and on. You sit, and you wonder how anything or anyone could take a child and. Do that. Do _ that._ To a God damn child.

You sit and when she mentions his name, you commit it to memory. You want him in your mind. You want to find his face and wipe it off the earth. And that's possible for you, oh is that possible for you. You could do terrible things to this man, you can have terrible things done to him and you could, if you so chose, sit right next to him and tell him how well Elsa is. How much better she's gotten since he went and took her and fucking broke her. Again. And again. _ And again._

But you won't do these things. Least of all would you do the last thing. Because you don't want him to have the pleasure of hearing her name in his ears. Oh, you'd delight in bending him over and breaking him. Oh, oh oh would you delight in bending him over in a barn somewhere and allowing a horse to break him. You seem to recall some big thing in the news with that a handful of years ago. Breaking news for a broken man.

But again, you won't do these things. You'd have to touch him intimately. You'd have to sit in the same room as him and not throttle the life out of him while some stallion fucked him to death and really it wouldn't be as satisfying as if you throttled him yourself. Well. It would probably be satisfying for the horse.

But you sit, you sit and you hold her and rock her in your arms like she's a baby and eventually words fail her and she just shakes. She trembles and shakes and cries and cries and cries until she's hiccuping and sobbing and choking on her sobbing hiccups. You tell her that you think it's time for bed and she, you think, agrees amidst the heavy, body-wracking sobs. So you lift her in your arms and you take her to her bedroom. You undress her and then yourself and when you both are bare you pull the comforter and sheets down on her bed, then you gather her up into your arms once more and settle her into the bed.

You don't crave of her flesh and sweat and cum, this is not why you are both bare. This is because she has spent hours baring herself and her soul and in some way, this is more a comfort to you than her. You pull the bed covers up about the two of you and you pull her to your chest. Her face is wet, sticky with tears and mucus. She's crying and it doesn't seem she'll stop anytime soon. You run your fingers through her hair.

"I think I'm in love with you."

She doesn't stop crying. If anything she cries harder, and you think you can hear a very small, very confused, very frightened, "Why?" bubble up from the depths of her being. You shrug and press a kiss to her forehead.

"I just do. Is that a problem for you?"

And maybe you're crazy. Maybe SHE'S crazy. But you swear she's laughing. Laugh-crying really. One of her arms snakes around your waist and a trembling hand presses against your back, fingers curling slightly, nails digging desperately into your skin. It hurts, but not enough to complain.

"I-I-" she's still hiccuping but with an indescribable show of inner strength, she calms slightly, at least enough to force out, "I s-s'pose tha-at makes yu-you j-just my problem?"

Now you're laughing. You must be crazy. The both of you must be terminally ill.

"Did you just make an Adventure Time reference?"

"H-how did y-you know th-that bu-but not St-St-Steven?"

"Because you have a lame, uneducated swine of a girlfriend." And it is mostly laughter that breaks free from her, falling from her lips like those silent tears that fall from her cheeks and salt the skin of your chest. And eventually she calms, truly calms. Those tears are silent and slowing, her sniffles all that remain from this arduous emotional journey.

"Obviously," she murmurs and you're overjoyed that she sounds so tired. Like she'll drop off at any moment, having exhausted her energy these past hours. Re-living memories for you. You of all people. Like you're something so special. And maybe you are. To her. And... you've never so wanted to be special to someone. Never felt the need. "I think I'm in love with you too."

You wonder if she's even aware of what she's said, so soft and sleepily are those words pressed against your skin. Until she shifts very minutely, tucking her head up underneath your chin more securely.

"Is that ok?" She asks and it startles you. You were drifting off yourself and had assumed she was well and gone. You shift to awkwardly press another kiss to her brow. You've whispered before. You've whispered warm things and cold things, threats and sweet promises, curses and every manner of all kinds of things... But never have words so soft and sincerely honest been issued forth from your mouth,

"That's more than ok, Elsa."

"Good," she says and her body relaxes entirely against yours, the bite of her nails disappearing from your back. "Good." And it's the last thing she says before drifting off. And in the silence after you cherish her. Her warmth and softness. The myriad of scars both physical and non that she has to carry with her everyday. Her inner glow and that indomitable strength she, at times, doesn't even realize she has.

You hold her and as you follow her, away away away from the waking world and all its darkness and vile, cruel people - as you follow her you find yourself wondering what you did to deserve this woman that lays in your arms, curled up so contently beneath your chin. Because you can't think of a God damn thing.

* * *

She's uncharacteristically quiet and sweet the next day. You both wake slowly and she nuzzles into you, presses her soft mouth to your salty skin in precious little kisses. You allow it. You stroke her back, run slow fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp. She wishes you a good morning. Her voice is a little hoarse. Some part of you thinks she sounds kinda sexy. That is a very small part and you remind it why it is that her voice is hoarse and it falls silent.

"We should bathe," you tell her and she nods. But doesn't move an inch. You chuckle. "Elsa?" There's the familiar bite of her nails in your back. Well, this one is more of a nibble than a bite. A subtle display of desperation.

"Shower with me?" She sounds very smaIl. Uncertain. ThIs is an Elsa you are unfamiliar with. You have suffered the wrath of a frightened Elsa that runs and runs and ignores all and everyone in her need to get out. Get away from her fears. You have weathered the stormy seas of a sad Elsa. You have paid witness to an angered Elsa. But never had you imagined a chance to see Elsa without thick rigid walls of supposed self-confidence, without her cocky attitude or sarcastic quips.

"But of course," you agree. "Is there any other way to shower?" And it's not like it's funny, in fact according to both yourself and the beautiful woman with the tear stained cheeks that's looking up at you with eyes that've never looked so blue, you're incredibly lame. But she laughs all the same. And because you get this sense like she doesn't want to be without you, you shift so she is on top of you, then you sit up with her still in your arms.

"You're showing off," she accuses as you hold her close and get up and out of bed, carrying her to the bathroom. You settle her on the sink counter and kiss that soft mouth of hers once, twice and step back and towards the shower, fiddling with the knobs.

"I am," you agree. You're grinning. "But as I recall it, I'm just your problem, princess."

"And as I recall it, I'm not a princess, peasant." She sniffs, indignant as can be, nose high in the air so she can look down it at you. You chuckle and step over to her, planting your hands on either side of her naked thighs.

"You could always marry me and share my vampire queen title." She tilts her head back down to consider you. She smiles.

"Or I could kill you and take both your kingdom and your title for myself."

"Hmmmm, you're Ruthless. I think my kingdom would proudly accept you as Queen. Might I offer my humble services in exchange for my life?" She hums in thought, walking her fingers up your arms and settling her hands behind your neck.

"What services might these be?"

"Well, I've been told I'm not too bad in the art of tipping the velvet, but besides that I have impeccable back-washing skills."

"I suppose that makes you lucky that I've been requiring the aid of a back-washer for some time now. And who knows? If you do well enough I might even be willing to test that first claim of yours." She's smiling and you laugh and let her pull you into another press of mouths. More affection than intimacy, even despite the both of you are still very naked and in particular you're standing between her thighs. You slip your hands beneath those lovely thighs and pull her against your body, walking towards the shower.

She draws back with a surprised shriek as you step your tangle of limbs underneath the spray that, even waiting and bantering as you had been, is still slightly chilly. Enough to be a shock to the system.

"How very rude of you, ruining our moment!" You set her down on her own two feet, though she seems a bit unwilling about that. You're almost entirely certain she'll survive. And you inform her as much. She slaps your shoulder. "I can still have you assassinated, you know."

"Oh I know," you push your wet hair back out of your eyes, slicking it back against your head. "But I have to wash your back, oh Queen of mine. Tis my one true purpose in life."

"I can always have you assassinated after." You reach over her shoulder to grab her shampoo, popping the cap and squeezing a liberal amount in your hand. You massage it into her scalp. She's trying to scowl at you. She's failing.

"This is very true, but then of course how could I prove my first claim from the grave?"

"Hmmmm," you're not quite certain if that's her answer or just a satisfied hum. You soon learn. "Well I've always been told that dead girls can't say no."

A bark of a laugh bursts out of you quite without your permission. She's grinning and keeping herself contained with much smaller giggles.

"I," still laughing, you choke out between breaths, "I suppose that's... very true."

"A wise man once said: 'I'm a magical talking sitar and I only speak the truth.' And that's just something I try to live by, you know?" You do love this woman. This strange woman that can be so aggressive, so abrasive. This strange woman that can be so sweet, so silly. This beautiful woman that is far from strange and so much closer to perfect. Even as perfect is simply an idea, an ideal that so many chase and all for nothing, because it rightly shouldn't exist. Doesn't.

But there's an old saying about the exception that proves the rule.

"That is a pretty good philosophy to live by," you tell her.

"I like to think so," And she gives you a look that is accusing, but smiles all the same. There are your own truths you're still ignoring, and for the moment so will she. "Now then slave-"

"I'm a slave now? What happened to being a peasant?" One of her brows quirks up, she blinks water out of her eyes.

"Are you questioning your Queen?" Biting back a smile you drop to your knees, head bowed. And nearly fall and bust you face on the slick floor, but balance yourself out with one hand.

"No of course not, Your Majesty! I simply wished to clarify, and only for myself, exactly my position in your court, oh wise and gracious ruler of the realm."

"You're position is beneath me," you lift your head to waggle your brows at her suggestively. "Yes, that too, you lust-driven heathen. But in this moment you must prove to me your skill in scrubbing backs, as per our agreement. So rise, oh salt of the earth. Rise and do as I have bid of thee."

* * *

**I couldn't figure out how to end this chapter. So this is where I stopped. Ok, I love you buh-bye.(forgive mistakes pls)**


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